


Digging Up Bones

by songsformonkeys



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Betrayal, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Medical Procedures, Slow Build, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsformonkeys/pseuds/songsformonkeys
Summary: You hadn't applied for the job with the Statesmen. The Statesmen had found you. Fresh out of John Hopkins University, you had just gotten yourself a degree in medicine and had written a thesis on the possibilities of regrowing brain tissue after severe head trauma when they had approached you. You had said yes and during the years that followed you continued to work for the Statemen as head of their medical department.One Statesmen agent in particular seemed to be more accident-prone than the rest and never passed up a reason to come see you, whether for real injuries or imaginary ones. The two of you formed a close friendship, which might have turned into something more. Then things started to shift as a british man with a headshot and a fascination with butterflies showed up in your emergency room and as the story unraveled things only got more complicated and you found out things about agent Whiskey that forced you to view him in a whole new light.(This story follows the events of the two Kingsman movies (the second in particular) with some liberties taken on my part. I hope you enjoy!)
Relationships: Jack | Whiskey/Reader
Comments: 65
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_Agent Sherry was lying face down on the ground. The light in the room was dim but you could see a small pool of blood forming under his face. Next to his head was the remnants of a smashed bottle and the liqour from it was mixing with the blood and the dust on the floor, turning it all into a scarlett cocktail. Agent Sherry was lying deadly still, which wasn't a good sign. He hadn't answered when you'd screamed his name and managed to kick his shoe either. You were beginning to fear the worst. Was he dead? You had watched as the bottle had hit him square in the temple and it hadn't been a pretty sight. There was no way for you to check on him either because you were currently tied firmly to a chair in the middle of a storage room, with rope looped around your wrists and chest._

_You heard the sound of glass hitting the floor and watched the neck of the smashed bottle roll away from a pair of boot-clad feet._

_“You shouldn't have followed me here, Darlin',” drawled a familiar voice, sugary sweet and dangerous._

_You looked up to meet the eyes of Agent Whiskey and you felt fear creep up your spine when a smile spread across his face._

_**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~** _


	2. Chapter 2

You hadn't applied for the job with the Statesmen. The Statesmen had found you. Fresh out of John Hopkins University, you had just gotten yourself a degree in medicine and had written a thesis on the possibilities of regrowing brain tissue after severe head trauma when they had approached you.

Your life had been fairly normal, if a bit boring according to others, up until that point. You had never been much of a social butterfly and you didn't really have much family or many friends. So you'd spent the majority of your college years either studying or volunteering for various experiments or science projects. Others had always seemed to pity you a bit for the uneventful and very much predictable way you lived your life, but you liked it. It was familiar and it was safe. Besides, you loved the field of medicine and given the choice between reading about the deteriorating effect alcohol and drugs had on the human brain versus experiencing it first and second hand, you definitely preferred the former.

The plan had always been for you to stay within the world of the university, to continue to do research, and maybe even teach. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans...

Yours had gone awry when two men in Stetson hats and identical glasses had showed up to your graduation party. Well...party was a strong word for it. You had been having dinner at your favorite Italian restaurant, accompanied by your diploma and your iPad, when the two men had sauntered in. One had been an older, gray-haired man with a purple cravat tie and a slight underbite. The other, a dark-haired man with equally dark eyes and mustache. His collar had been popped and he'd been eyeing you, your diploma and the iPad as if you were clues to a particularly curious riddle.

When the older of the two had introduced them you had immediately begun to wonder if this was some sort of joke. Champagne and Whiskey weren't real names and yet that had been exactly the names the older man had given. They had asked to join you at your table and you had been too curious to say no.

After some more pleasantries on their part and more confusion on yours, they had cut to the chase and explained why they were there. They had wanted to offer you a job. They had told you that they had been keeping track of you for a while now, something you had found immensely disturbing, and that they needed someone with your set of skills and talents. You had never been one to fall for flattery though, especially coming from people who had just admitted to spying on you for the better part of two years.

In the end, it had been the video that did it. When the older man, _Champagne,_ had realized that they weren't winning you over as smoothly as they'd hoped, he'd asked _Whiskey_ to show you the lab. Whiskey had taken out his phone and pulled up a video on the screen before handing it over to you. As you watched the video, your jaw had dropped. Whatever this place was, it was like something from the future. You had spotted several machines that were so expensive you could only dream of using them. It was both a medical reception and a lab all in one. And, was that a room for surgery?

“All yours to play with, if you decide to join our medical team,” Champagne had said. It hadn't taken much convincing to get you to agree after that.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You remembered the first time you'd been to the headquarters too. Champagne...well, _Agent_ Champagne as it turned out, had sat you down and told you the story of the Statesmen. It had all sounded insane at first but after he'd given you the tour, you had to admit that every incredulous detail was probably true.

He'd shown you to your office/reception and you had felt like you might cry. Just this room was bigger than your old apartment, and way fancier too. On top of your desk, there had been a set of white scrubs neatly folded, along with a lab coat. When you had picked up the coat you had noticed a gold nametag pinned to it.

“Moonshine?” you had asked.

“Everyone who works here has a moniker. We thought this one would be fitting.” You hadn't asked why. It was an absolutely ridiculous moniker but you had figured it had already been decided for you and therefore wasn't really up for discussion.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Over the next few years, you worked tirelessly for the Statesmen, quickly advancing in the ranks and barely taking a day off. Why would you? This was your dream, and then some!

You had been offered an apartment off-site but it hadn't taken long before you'd managed to convince them to let you stay inside the HQ and you had moved what little furniture you had into one of the rooms adjacent to your office. Considering its padded walls and one-way mirror, it was most likely intended as some sort of cell but after you had moved your stuff in you had to admit that it was quite cozy. The mirror creeped you out the first night you slept there so the next day you covered it up with newspaper. In the years that followed it had slowly turned in to notice-board where you'd taped up all kinds of stuff.

The Statesmen had let you practice medicine as well as continue your studies and you became a skilled trauma doctor and studied surgery along with your colleagues in the medical department. You saw more blood and bones and intestines than any normal person should but you found that you handled it quite well. Your curiosity and eagerness to learn kept the emotional aspect of the horrific things you saw at bay. Your bedside manners could probably have done with a bit of improvement but you worked with agents and you figured that if they needed you to coddle them then they had no business being in this line of work. Besides, you had your colleague Tonic whose expertise lay in the field of psychology and he was always happy to come along and soften anything you said, while still making you look professional. You enjoyed working with him.

Along with the people from the tech department, you also managed to expand on the subject of your thesis, and with the help of the seemingly limitless resources of the organization your two departments were eventually able to present a product which was nothing short of revolutionary.

The Alpha-gel had been your brain-child for so many years and when you finally got to watch it being demonstrated to the other agents, you were so nervous that your entire body was shaking. Your friend Ginger had to put her arm around your shoulder to prevent your teeth from rattling, or perhaps she was worried you might topple over. You hadn't...but it had been a pretty close call.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It wasn't long after the invention of the Alpha-gel that you had been asked to take over as head of the medical department, when the previous one had chosen to retire. You'd said yes, of course, and you'd been walking on clouds for the rest of the day. It was only when you'd retired to your office that evening for some reading, that a feeling of sadness came over you.

It was at times like this that you missed not having a close family. You had grown up with foster parents and while they had been nice people, you had very little in common with them and when you had moved out to start college it had basically been understood by all parties that you wouldn't keep in touch much. You still sent cards on birthdays and holidays but that was it. They wouldn't understand something like this. Besides, even if you had wanted to tell them about this, you couldn't. It was all classified.

You had felt the same kind of sadness on the day of your graduation, immensely proud of your accomplishments but also suddenly very lonely, and just like that time, it had been a dark-haired agent in a Stetson that came to cheer you up.

“Come in!” you yelled at the knock on the door.

“...Can't! You gotta help me out, darlin'!” came agent Whiskey's response from the other side of the door.

“You better not have broken your arms again!” you called and set your book and marker down on your desk before walking over to the door.

“Arms are fine, just a little preoccupied!”

You didn't fully believe him. Out of all the agents, Whiskey was by far the one to seek your assistance the most. Whether it was for broken arms, concussions, torn muscles, gunshot wounds, burns, nausea, headaches or, which was the most frequent one, “ _just a general feelin' of unwell, thought maybe best you check it out”_ , Whiskey seemed to show up at your office at least once a week with some ailment or another.

In the beginning, it had actually worried you enough that you'd secretly spoken to Champ about it, asking if it really was wise to let Whiskey out on so many missions when he always seemed to come back hurt from them. Champ had just laughed and given you a meaningful look. He'd told you that Whiskey was by far one of the Statesmen's most skilled agents and that he was fairly certain at least half of Whiskey's injuries where all in his head. Champ had said he suspected Whiskey mostly came for the company.

You'd read three books on hypochondria, that you'd borrowed from Tonic, over the next week and while Whiskey didn't quite fit the description you wanted to try and help him in the best way you could.

When you opened the door this time, though, there were no apparent injuries. Just Whiskey, balancing a plate with big, round chocolate cake in one hand and holding a bottle of liquor in the other.

“Whiskey, what...?” you asked, almost a little speechless.

“Heard about the promotion, figured we needed a celebration,” he grinned, as usual not waiting for your invitation before stepping into your office. He shook the bottle a little as he set the cake down on your desk. “Fetch us two of those plastic mugs you've got here somewhere.”

“I'll fetch you one. I don't like whiskey.”

“Oh darlin', you wound me!” he gasped and you rolled your eyes at him. Always with the theatrics. Whiskey definitely had a flair for drama. Though you had to admit, it was somewhat entertaining. And the fact that he was here tonight, having thought of you like this made something warm settle in your chest.

“The drink. You, I tolerate.” you shot back and Whiskey laughed.

You went and got him a plastic mug from the cupboard in the other room. When you got back he pulled two forks from his back pocket and patted the seat of your chair. You sat down and eyed the cake a little hesitantly.

“There aren't any almonds in this, right?” you asked. You weren't deadly allergic to them but the swelling and itching was something you would gladly never experience again.

“Should hope not, since I made very sure not to put any in there. Just for you.”

“You made this?” You hadn't meant for your voice to sound quite so incredulous but Whiskey took it in stride.

“Sure did, sugar!” he said and then added, with a wink, “I'm a man of many talents, most of which you constantly refuse to let me show you, despite me offering.”

“I view it as good practice for you to not always get what you want.”

Whiskey feigned a sigh.

“Well, they say distance makes the heart grow fond...”

“...so considering how often you show up here, I can't imagine that much fondness for me has grown at all.”

“Oh on the contrary, darlin'! If only you knew the kind of self-restraint that I show by only showing up here once a week.”

You laughed at his jokes and gently smacked him on the arm.

“Ap ap! Haven't you taken a vow not to do harm?”

“I promise to heal whatever I break. Now cake?”

“Cake,” Whiskey agreed and handed you one of the forks. There were no other plates beside the one the cake was already on so you assumed Whiskey expected you to just dig into the whole cake. It wasn't your preferred way to eat cake, too messy, but you were polite enough not to point that out. Instead, you dug up a small piece of cake with your fork. Whiskey was watching you expectantly as you took your first bite.

The cake was incredible and you held your hand in front of your mouth to tell Whiskey as much without showing him the half-chewed cake still in your mouth. His face immediately lit up as he smiled wide.

“I'm glad you enjoy it,” he said and watched you take another bite before joining you and taking a bite of his own. He was sitting down on your desk, next to the cake and when you looked down to make sure the cake didn't end up on his jeans, you noticed that he was sitting on a pile of papers.

“You're sitting on my report,” you pointed out. Instead of moving away, Whiskey simply spread his legs wider and tried to read upsidedown what could be seen of the text between his thighs.

“So I am, it seems,” he answered but still didn't move. Your fingers itched to move the papers from underneath him but you kept yourself in check. There was a bigger risk that the papers would crease or tear if you tried moving them now. As long as Whiskey stayed mostly still then maybe you wouldn't need to reprint all of the pages after he'd gone.

“Soo..., “ he drawled, “Head of the medical department. That's big, Moonshine. How's it feel?”

“It feels good,” you replied, “A bit scary. I'm not used to people expecting me to tell them what to do. What if I'm no good at it?” You looked up at Whiskey as you asked the question and he gave you a kind smile.

“You hardly need to worry about that. I've seen you patching up the most gruesome injuries. Cool as a cucumber every single time and handing out orders left and right. Everyone loves it when you take charge. You really don't need to wait for a life-and-death-situation to do so. There isn't a single person more capable of running this department.”

You adjusted your glasses to hide your blush. They were not the same model as the agents' glasses. Instead, yours were a pair of almost round, wire-rimmed ones that Ginger had modeled after the glasses you'd worn even before you started working for the Statesmen.

“You're just biased because you know me better than the others,” you argued.

“Maybe,” Whiskey admitted, “Doesn't mean you can't trust me.”

“Actually, the very definition of _biased_ means...” you began but Whiskey interrupted you by holding out his fork with a piece of cake towards you.

“Have some more cake,” he said. You glanced down at the fork, with a small frown.

“That's your fork,” you stated.

“Very observant,” Whiskey retorted and moved the fork even closer. He was giving you an expectant look and, after a few moments consideration of the risks involved in swapping cutlery, you opened your mouth and let him feed you the piece of cake.

“I'm heading for New York tomorrow,” Whiskey told you.

“Oh...,” you said slowly and Whiskey smirked.

“Well, I'll be damned if that didn't sound like disappointment just then!” He looked way too smug for your liking. So what if there had been a bit of disappointment to your tone? Whiskey knew you didn't hate his company. And he must be aware that you let him get away with things none of the other agents would be allowed to. The excessive flirting, for one thing.

Tonic had once pointed out that it was curious how Whiskey was messy and pushy and loud and pretty much all the things you disliked and yet you hadn't stabbed him with a scalpel and even seemed to enjoy his company. You couldn't explain it either, though lord knows you had tried to figure out what it was about the other agent that had allowed him to get under your skin like this. It frustrated you to no end that you hadn't been able to come up with an answer.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked, ignoring Whiskey's comment and stupid smile.

“A little over a week. Head of the New York office needs some assistance with a local art dealer that's up to some shady business.”

Whiskey reached for a piece of paper and one of your pens and quickly scribbled something down before handing the piece of paper to you. You glanced down at the note and the numbers he'd written down.

“I already have your number in the computer system, agent Whiskey.”

“I know but I figure that with this charming little note from yours truly lying on your desk you'd be more likely to actually use it.”

“You want me to call you?”

“Of course! Seeing as I won't be able to come and visit my favorite physician, I gotta get my fix somehow.” Whiskey winked at you and you looked down at the note again. You weren't sure how much healing you could do from across the country but if it made Whiskey happy that you would call and check up on him then you could do just that.

“Okay, I'll call,” you said and neatly put the little note under the edge of your keyboard so it wouldn't get lost. Even if playing along with Whiskey's hypochondria probably wasn't the best way to cure it, the smile he gave you when you said you'd call made it feel like you'd made the right decision. He poured himself another drink and managed to tip his hat at you all in one swift motion.

“Much obliged!”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Whiskey stayed for another hour or so, making small-talk and telling you about all the art-related stuff he'd had to learn for the mission he was leaving on.

When eleven o'clock rolled around you couldn't help but yawn and you quickly apologized to Whiskey.

“Don't sweat it, darlin'! It seems I've kept you up past your bedtime again. Let me walk you home.”

It was the same joke Whiskey had made hundreds of times before. The same joke he always made when he'd come to see you in the evening. The door to your room was literally two doors down from the room you were currently in but Whiskey always made sure to walk you there, even if the way out was in the opposite direction. In the beginning, you'd protested, unable yo wrap your mind around the logic behind it. After a while, however, you had decided, as you had with so many other things when it came to Whiskey, to just go along with it.

“What should we do with the rest of the cake?” you asked and looked around the room with a frown.

“Just put it in the fridge,” Whiskey said, pointing to the aforementioned refrigerator in the corner of the office.

“Whiskey, that fridge is for medical samples, not _cake!_ ” you protested and he just shrugged and rolled his eyes playfully at you.

“Fine! I'll take it back to mine. But then you gotta promise to go there and finish the rest of it.”

You promised, realizing you'd never been to Whiskey's apartment before. He didn't live in the Statesmen headquarters like you did but you knew his apartment was only a few minutes away, in the housing area where most of the agents and staff lived.

Whiskey picked up the cake and you quickly cleaned away any crumbs from your desk and tossed them in the trashcan before hanging up your coat on the wall.

“Do you own any clothes besides scrubs?” Whiskey asked curiously from over by the door. He was eyeing you from head to toe as if it was only now that he'd noticed the outfit you'd worn every single time you'd seen each other, apart from the first time that you had met.

“Sure, I do,” you answered, joining him and stepping out of the office, “I just rarely have a reason for wearing them.”

Whiskey nodded, looking thoughtful as you walked the few steps over to your door.

“Well, this is me,” you said, sticking to the usual script of this interaction.

“I don't suppose I get a goodnight-kiss as thanks for making sure you got home safely tonight as well?” Whiskey asked and leaned against the wall next to your door. He licked his lips and smirked when your eyes accidentally dropped to his mouth. Curse him and his jokes.

“The only danger to me down here is you and that persistent mouth of yours, Whiskey,” you replied and unlocked your door. “And I doubt kissing it would make it any less persistent.”

“I'd never hurt you, gorgeous, but I can't argue with that last statement. Lips like yours are hardly a one-time destination.”

You blushed. It annoyed you to no end that Whiskey always managed to do that. He just smiled and took a step back.

“I'm leaving at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning so I probably won't have time to swing by and see you before I leave. But don't forget to call me, alright?”

You assured him again that you would call him and then you quickly slipped into your room before he could make any further comments to make you blush. You heard him laugh through the door.

Getting ready for bed took no time at all. The room wasn't huge and with your bookshelves, armchair and closet it was a little bit crowded, although still with a homey feel to it. The bed was in the middle of the room, just like it was in all the other cells, and there was a sink in one end of the room and a shower in the other. The shower, you rarely used, opting instead for using the ones over by the training rooms.

You brushed your teeth over the sink, slipped out of the scrubs, and put them in the laundry bag. You felt your eyes drooping closed even before you were fully under the covers on the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The following three days passed in a slow fashion. Not just because Whiskey was gone but the rest of the agents seemed to be staying out of harm's way as well. It was a bit boring, but that was something Tonic had taught you not to complain about out loud since it apparently made it sound like you longed for injuries and carnage.

On the bright side, the slow days gave you, Ginger and Tonic time to begin interviewing the agents on base for their emergency folders for the Alpha-gel.

The three of you had realized that while the gel and the nanites healed the brain perfectly fine they still needed something to counter the retrograde amnesia, which seemed to be a standard side effect. The sample of agents that had needed to use the gel was still small and so you couldn't draw too many sure conclusions from it, but every single one of them so far had suffered memory loss. It had been Tonic's idea that reminders of a past trauma might jump-start the memory again. The results had been good but guessing and digging up past traumas had been painstakingly difficult and had taken up more time than ideal. So you had collectively decided that each agent should have a file or a folder containing their very worst memory and ways it could be triggered.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

On Wednesday evening, you curled up in your armchair and called Whiskey. He picked up after three rings.

“Moonshine, “ he drawled, voice sounding a little tired.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” you asked, suddenly feeling a little bad. It wasn't that late in the evening but maybe Whiskey had needed to tuck in early.

“No no, I was awake,” Whiskey assured you, “Just got home from a looong day at an art auction. I'm not sure if you've ever been but it is possibly the most boring thing I have _ever_ done.”

“Yeah? What was so bad about it?” you asked, smiling to yourself. You would be caught dead before admitting it out loud but you had actually missed him these past few days.

Whiskey began describing his day. A soon as he began talking, his voice relaxed you. You pictured him walking around in a swanky hotel room, with a view of the big city, probably still wearing his hat. You were half convinced he even slept in that thing.

Whiskey told you about the auction and the few stuck-up people who had pretended not to understand his southern accent just to make him feel less than. Then he told you about the way he'd later wiped the smug smiles of their faces by actually bidding home the small painting they had been ogling.

“Champ might kill me for it, 'cause it cost a small fortune, but it was worth it!”

“What will you do with the painting?” you asked.

“Hm,” Whiskey said and you didn't need to see him to know that he was shrugging, “Dunno. Might hang it in my apartment. It's a beautiful painting, reminded me of someone special... Speaking of my apartment, have you finished the cake yet?”

You nodded, before remembering that he couldn't see you.

“Yes, Ginger and Tonic helped me eat the rest of it.”

You had been over to Whiskey's apartment the day after he'd left. When you'd gotten to work, his key had been in a white envelope on your desk and you hadn't been able to keep your curiosity at bay for longer than a workday.

The apartment hadn't been quite what you thought Whiskey's home would look like. It had been much neater and cleaner than you had expected, for starters. You had expected more of a bachelor pad but Whiskey's apartment was quite nice. It looked lived in but not messy. Each thing seemed to have its own designated spot. As you had walked around the living room towards the kitchen you had taken in the big, comfortable-looking couch and multi-colored knitted blanket that looked like it was home-made.

There had been a couple of books on art history resting on the wooden coffee table. You had stopped, slightly in awe, in front of the big bookshelves that covered a whole wall of the room. You'd never pictured Whiskey to be the reading type, but here was clear proof otherwise. You had scanned the titles of the books and the exceptionally wide array of subjects made you suspect that a lot of these had been read for previous missions. But there had been a whole shelf of fiction too and you smiled a little as you noted that a lot of them seemed to be old western classics.

You had found the cake in the fridge in the equally clean kitchen. The cake had been in a plastic container and Whiskey had stuck a post-it note with a smiley on the lid.

“I liked your bookshelf. And I borrowed a book from you,“ you confessed over the phone and Whiskey chuckled in response.

“Is that so? Which one, if I may ask, was it that caught your fancy?”

“Lonesome Dove.”

“Ah, a classic! Didn't have you pegged as a western girl, Moonshine.”

“I'm not sure if I am, I've never read any. But you had a lot of them and I thought...” You cut yourself off, glancing over at the book on your bed, “You had a book on human anatomy as well that looked interesting and one on make-shift medical treatment when you don't have access to a hospital. I didn't take those, though. It felt wrong to take so many books without asking...”

Whiskey chuckled again and the sound did weird things to your insides, or maybe it was the nerves of having just admitted to raiding his bookshelf.

“Darlin', if it makes you happy, you are more than welcome to help yourself to any book in that apartment”

“Really? But what if it's a book that you suddenly need?”

“Then I'll know perfectly well where to find it.”

You couldn't really argue with that logic, didn't really _want_ to either because the prospect of getting to read all those books almost made you giddy.

“So besides ogling my books, what else have you been up to while I've been gone?” Whiskey asked and you proceeded to tell him about the work with the Trauma Folders, which Tonic so affectionately called them.

“You still haven't submitted yours either, by the way,” you told him. Whiskey didn't immediately answer. The line was dead silent for a few seconds and just when you were about to ask if he was still there, he cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I know. I promise to get right on that as soon as I'm back, okay?” He sounded a little odd and your brow furrowed slightly. Whiskey cleared his throat again.

“Look, darlin', I'm pretty dead on my feet right now and as lovely as your voice is to listen to, I think unfortunately we gotta hang up before I start snoring on you.”

“Oh, of course! Sorry, I've talked too much.”

“Hardly,” Whiskey replied and his voice was warm and soft again, which eased the nervous knots that had begun forming in your stomach at his abrupt attempt to end the call. Usually, that was your role to try and say goodnight and his to try and linger. “I cherish every word, which is why I prefer to be awake for them. Call me tomorrow again?”

“Sure. Good night, Whiskey.”

“Good night, darlin'”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

If the previous days had been slow, the following day was anything but, at least when the afternoon rolled around.

Ginger had called you about some very strange low-frequency readings coming from a church nearby in Kentucky. She told you that she and Tequila were gonna go check it out but that you should be in standby, just in case.

You told her to be careful. Ginger was excellent at her job but she was also one of your closest friends and you couldn't help but worry.

After you'd ended the call, you immediately set about preparing the emergency room and double-checking to make sure everything was there. Seeing as neither of you knew what the strange readings had been about, it was difficult to prepare for every possible scenario, and while you knew that the health effects of exposure to extremely low frequencies were being discussed in the medical community, no one knew exactly what the effects were.

It seemed like a lifetime had passed before Ginder called you again. You heard the sound of the helicopter in the background. She told you that they'd be there in thirty and that they were bringing someone in with a headshot.

“I'll get the chamber ready for him!” you told her

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Thirty minutes later, on the dot, you watched as the helicopter landed and Tequila emerged, carrying a man in a suit. The man's face was obscured by the balloon containing the Alpha-gel but his clothes looked expensive.

“Entry point?” you yelled, over the sound of the helicopter as you waved for Tequila and Ginger to hurry inside.

“Straight through the left eye,” Ginger replied and you winced. The left temporal lobe would be damaged, for sure, maybe part of the occipital one too. You were confident that the nanites would be able to rebuild the brain matter but with the temporal lobe damaged you worried that the memory loss might be even more extensive than what you'd seen before and you wondered if it would affect his speech.

“Exit point or is the bullet still in there?” you asked.

“The bullet went all the way through as far as I could tell. Not sure what he was shot with though so we'll have to scan to make sure there's nothing left in there.”

Said and done. When you got down to the medical rooms you first put the man through a thorough scan of his skull. Just like Ginger suspected, the bullet had gone straight through and it luckily hadn't left anything but damaged tissue in its wake. Tequila helped move him over to the nanite chamber. Carefully, you removed the Alpha-gel balloon and quickly closed the chamber around his head.

“What happened?” you asked as you sat down in front of the computer and began tapping away at the keyboard, starting the machine and readying it for the healing and rebuilding process.

“We have no idea,” Ginger said. “We found him like this outside the church, no sign of who had shot him. Inside the church, however...”

“What?” you asked.

“Inside was a total fuckin' bloodbath,” Tequila supplied, “Whole congregation just...slaughtered.”

You looked over at the strange man.

“You think he did it?”

Both Ginger and Tequila shrugged.

“We don't know. But he's got blood on him that isn't his own and there was no gun in his hand so he clearly didn't shoot himself, which means someone got away from that Church alive.” Ginger reasoned, “And there's one more thing..”

She pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of her jacket. The left glass was shattered.

“He was wearing these. These aren't normal glasses, which means he's not a civilian. And his watch... he's some sort of intelligence. I'll dig around and see if I can find out whom he belongs to.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You called Whiskey again that evening. He sounded more awake today but you could practically hear the frown on his face when you told him about your strange new guest. He was not happy.

“He's an agent?” he asked.

“We think so. Ginger is running some tests on his glasses and his watch to see what we can figure out but so far we have no idea whom he's working for. So we just have to wait for him to wake up and see how much he remembers.”

“I don't like this,” Whiskey stated. “Not one bit. If he's intelligence, he's dangerous, Moonshine. You shouldn't be alone with him, not under any circumstances!”

“I won't,” you reassured him, while rolling your eyes. “Agent Tequila also has an over-protective streak and has, therefore, put himself on guard duty until further notice. I've had him looking over my shoulder all evening.”

You had found it somewhat annoying but Whiskey had instantly calmed down upon hearing that bit of information. He told you to promise to listen to Tequila on this, which you reluctantly did. You didn't tell Whiskey that if the arrangement continued, you would have to come to some sort of agreement with Tequila on how close was close enough for protection. You couldn't have him reading over your shoulder all day long or you'd go stir crazy.

Whiskey continued to ask you a bunch of questions about the strange man and you couldn't answer a single one. He asked you about the signal too and you couldn't give him any answers to that either. It was all Ginger's area of expertise and you told him as much.

“Sorry, darlin', just wanna make sure my favorite girl is safe until I get back.”

Whiskey's words made you smile stupidly, despite the slightly patronizing undertone of them. You would like to think you knew how to take care of yourself, especially around your patients. But you did enjoy it when Whiskey called you his favorite. No one else had called you their favorite before.

After a few more minutes of chit-chat, you both said good night.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The next day, your patient woke up.

It had been decided the day before that Tonic and Tequila would be the first ones to greet him. Tequila because of the whole bodyguard business and Tonic because he was by far the one who had the most experience with calming people in shock and panic. You had only sulked a little when you'd sat down the desk on the other side of the one-way mirror showing you the stranger's cell. You turned on the cameras in the other room to record the interaction before leaning forward over the desk to watch.

As anticipated, the man was more than a little freaked out by waking up in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar faces around him.

“Where am I? Who are you?” he immediately asked and you raised your eyebrows as you noted his British accent. The stranger tried to scramble off the bed where he'd been lying. Tequila took a step forward but Tonic quickly held up a hand to stop him.

“You are in a hospital,” Tonic told the frightened man and gave him a calm smile, “My name is To...Tom.”

“A hospital? What happened?” the stranger asked.

“We were hoping you would be able to tell us. You were in some sort of accident and when we found you, you were unconscious.”

 _Unconscious..._ that was definitely an understatement to describing having had one's brains blown out through the back of their head.

“Do you remember anything of what happened?” Tonic continued.

The British man looked around the room with wild eyes but he was already calming down a bit. While you were a bit jealous that Tonic, or _Tom_ apparently, was the first one to get to talk to your new patient you had to admit that it was a privilege to get to watch him work. Tonic continued talking to the man and answering his questions by saying just enough to calm him but not enough to confuse him.

You found out that his name was Harry, but he couldn't remember his last name. He was from England and he thought he was 23 years old, which he most definitely was not. You caught Tonic and Tequila exchange a look as Harry told them his age. If Harry couldn't remember anything beyond his 23rd year then you estimated that he had forgotten more than half of his life. And since he wasn't one of your agents, you had no idea how to bring those memories back again...

Tonic and Harry spoke for a while longer and Tonic told him about his injuries. He also told harry about the memory loss. Harry didn't believe him until Tonic guided him over to the one-way mirror separating you from them and let Harry have a look at himself. You stood on the other side of the mirror and could watch as realization dawned on Harry. His breathing immediately sped up again and he was beginning to panic.

“Harry,” Tonic said calmly, “Harry, I'm gonna need you to breathe slower with me, okay? We've seen this kind of memory loss before and we will do our very best to help you recover the memories you can't remember right now”

“Think of it as one hell of a hangover,” Tequila supplied and Harry gave him an incredulous look.

“Hangover?” he asked in a weak voice “I look old enough to be a grandfather and I don't remember any of it... I don't think anyone has ever been drunk enough for that kind of hangover.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Tonic and Tequila handled the whole ordeal in a way that made you proud to call yourself their colleague and they stayed with Harry for most of the day, talking and explaining. Harry listened patiently and you had to give him credit for taking the situation a whole lot better than some of the Statesmen who had gone through the same thing. He was scared and worried, sure, but he managed to keep his panic in check and asked Tonic a whole bunch of relevant questions.

You wished you could have stayed and watched all afternoon but eventually you had to go back to your own office and begin typing up your report.

You had barely gotten two paragraphs in when your phone started ringing.

“Moonshine?” Whiskey said as soon as you picked up and you could immediately tell that something was wrong. He sounded scared. There were car horns blaring and loud crashes in the background.

“Yes. Whiskey what's...”

Whiskey cut you off before you could finish your question.

“Where are you?” he asked and when it took you a fraction of a second too long to answer, he repeated the question, “Moonshine! Where are you?”

“I'm in the office. Whiskey what's wrong?”

“Good! Whatever you do, stay where you are! There's something in the air! People are killing each other!”

“What?” Before you could say anything further, your door burst open and you screamed from surprise.

“Moonshine!” Whiskey yelled, panicked, as Ginger stormed into the office and pushed you out of her way to get to the computer. She began tapping on the keyboard and you watched as she pulled up live feeds from several cameras around the country. Your mouth fell open as you watched the chaos that filled the screen.

“MOONSHINE!” Whiskey yelled again and you realized you hadn't answered him.

“I'm fine!” you quickly assured him and you heard him exhale loudly. “Ginger just showed up. What the hell is going on?” The last question was aimed at them both. The quality of the feeds wasn't the best but there was no mistaking what was going on. All over the country, people were killing each other.

“The fuck if I know,” Whiskey said at the same time as Ginger supplied the slightly more helpful “It's the same signal! It's the same low frequency as we picked up from the church. But this is all over...well the world”

She turned and looked at the phone in your hand.

“Is that agent Whiskey?”

You nodded but then froze as you heard a banging noise on the other end of the line, which sounded much closer than the previous ones. You heard Whiskey curse.

“Whiskey?”

There was another crash and he cursed again.

“I'm sorry, darlin', I seem to have a visitor. I gotta go.”

“Whiskey,” you begged and you heard your own voice break as you spoke his name.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll deal with this and then I promise I'll come right home to you. You just promise to stay inside and stay safe, okay?”

 _What about you?_ you wanted to ask, but Whiskey had already hung up.

“He'll be fine,” said Ginger, who must have seen the expression change on your face. You nodded. She was right. Whiskey was an excellent agent. He would be fine.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_He would be fine._ You managed to convince yourself of that up until about an hour later when the office phone called. You were too busy clutching your own phone, waiting for Whiskey to call back, to pay any attention to the other phone so Ginger picked it up and answered. She exchanged a few cryptic comments with the person on the other line before ending the call by saying:

“We'll be ready for him.”

After she'd hung up the phone she turned towards you.

“Whiskey's on his way back. He's been stabbed but according to the pilot, he's stable. They're flying him back now. “


	4. Chapter 4

Your hands were shaking from exhaustion where they rested in your lap, clutching the bloody face mask you had been wearing for the past several hours. Your scrubs looked like a failed tie-dye experiment in light blue and red and the light in the room was unforgivingly bright, illuminating the aftermath of the surgery in stark detail.

They had wheeled Whiskey out of here about half an hour ago, if your sense of time was still reliable. As soon as he and the others were out of the room, you had slumped down onto a chair and you hadn't been able to get up since then.

The pilot had said that Whiskey was stable on the way back but there was a reason you were the medical expert in this operation and not him because _stable_ wasn't the adjective you would have used. Sure, you had been fairly confident that he wouldn't die, but that confidence had been more due to faith in your skills rather than a lack of severity in Whiskey's condition. Multiple stab wounds to his right thigh, his right arm, and a particularly nasty one in his side, as well as a broken leg, broken pinky finger, a cut across the bridge of his nose and bruising that was out of this world. The pilot had said that Whiskey had fallen out a window and the bloody mess that had been placed in front of you made you believe that. The detail that, surprisingly, had been the most jarring was the fact that Whiskey hadn't been wearing his hat. His head had looked small and vulnerable without it and you had reached out to stroke it before you'd had time to process what you were doing. The others had definitely noticed but neither of them had said anything.

If it had been anyone but Whiskey on that table you would have gotten a thrill from the challenge of putting them back together (another thing Tonic had forbidden you from saying out loud) but, when it was him, the urgency of your movements was instead driven by fear. It was something you weren't familiar with. The fear that you would make a mistake and that you wouldn't be able to save him messed with your head and, more than once, you had to physically shake your head to get the thoughts to stop pestering you. One of your assistants, you couldn't remember who since you had been so focused on Whiskey, had offered to switch with you. She was probably worried that your friendship with the patient would affect your performance. You had refused. You were the one best equipped at handling this and if Whiskey were to die, he would die by your hand. Only then would you have been able to accept that everything had been done that could be done to save him.

Luckily, Whiskey hadn't died. It had taken hours but in the end, you had managed to patch him up and when you declared him stable it was actually the truth. It would still be hours before he woke up and when he did, he would no doubt be in a lot of pain but the immediate danger was over. Whiskey would live and you could relax. Or collapse, depending on whom you asked.

Your legs felt like lead, your mouth was dry and you could feel a massive headache building behind your eyes. You should go back to your apartment, get some sleep before Whiskey woke up, but it was as if your body had stopped cooperating. It didn't worry you. You were sure you would regain control over your body at some point, preferably sooner rather than later.

Another 20 minutes passed without any luck in that department but you never got to find out just how much longer it would have taken because, once those 20 minutes had passed, the door opened. You turned and saw Tonic standing there. He looked at you and then at the state of the rest of the room.

“Whatcha doing here, Moonshine?” he asked a little hesitantly as he stepped into the room.

“My legs don't work,” you replied stupidly. And inaccurately. Your legs worked just fine, you just weren't in control of them at the moment. It was a purely psychological thing which, as luck would have it, was Tonic's field of expertise.

“I'm not surprised,” he said, “You've been down here for hours. I hear Agent Whiskey owes you one hell of a thank you when he wakes up.”

You shrugged as Tonic gently pried the face mask from your hands and tossed it in a trashcan. You began protesting that the trashcan wasn't the place to dispose of the bloody mask but Tonic calmly hushed you.

“The assistants are waiting just outside the door for you to leave so they can clean this place up properly.”

You looked towards the door with a look of confusion.

“Why didn't they come inside?” you asked. Tonic gave you a slightly awkward smile.

“They were...worried about you,” he settled for and you didn't have the energy to question him for further details right now. He held a hand out and as you took it, he pulled you to your feet. Your legs felt surprisingly stable and normal and you shifted a little from foot to foot.

“Let's go get you cleaned up,” Tonic said and you nodded, following him outside.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Sitting still at a sick or hurt person's bedside had never been your thing. You'd watched families and friends do it, and the gesture of just sitting there and maybe holding their loved one's hand had always seemed to bring them comfort and calm. It wasn't entirely clear why. The act probably wouldn't do much to increase the chances of survival of the person they cared for. Although, you supposed it probably wouldn't make it worse either.

You had never sat at someone's bedside that way. Hadn't known anyone who got sick or hurt enough to end up in a hospital. With your parents, they had been gone too quickly for there to even be a trip to the hospital. Every other sick or hurt person you had seen had been your patient, which meant there had been plenty more useful things for you to do than sit by their bed and pet them.

With Whiskey, the lines were...blurred. He was your patient but he was also your friend. And the knot of worry in your belly just kept growing, even though you knew the surgery had gone well. So when you entered his room and found him sleeping in his hospital bed, hooked up to a whole array of medical equipment, you figured that maybe it was worth a try just to see what all the fuss was about.

You dragged a chair over to his side, sat down and took his hand, just like you'd seen others do. But almost immediately you noticed that it didn't feel right. It felt weird. Whiskey's hand was warm and it felt strong even in his unconscious state. Under different circumstances, it wouldn't have been an unpleasant hand to hold. But now, the hand was way too still in your grip and the lack of jokes and flirty remarks were a clear reminder that something was wrong. There was no way Whiskey would have let you hold his hand like this without teasing you mercilessly about it.

For five minutes, you sat there, waiting for the sense of calm and comfort to kick in. All it did was make you go over, in your mind, all the things that could have gone wrong with the surgery, all the ways Whiskey could have died. It made your chest hurt and after five minutes you couldn't take it anymore. So you stood up and instead busied yourself with checking every single one of Whiskey's vitals on the monitors, the IV drip, the bandaids covering his stitches. _This_ was you in your element and as you noted that everything seemed fine, the calm you had been longing for finally began to creep in. It was mingled with pride over the excellent job your colleagues had done.

“You're in good hands,” you smiled and told Whiskey, absent-mindedly, as if you expected a response. When it didn't come, your smile dimmed a little and you went back to check the monitors.

You had been told that he would wake up soon. That the anesthetics should be wearing off within the next half an hour. You didn't want to leave before then. Didn't want Whiskey to have to be alone when he woke up.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It took another twenty minutes before he did, during with time you'd tinkered with the medical equipment, smoothed out his blanket several times and tried a second time to hold his hand, with the exact same result as last time.

The almost inaudible groan from the bed, when he finally came to, caught your attention instantly and you watched the way Whiskey's pulse sped up slightly on the monitor before you moved to his side where he would be able to see you.

You waited, holding your breath, for several seconds before Whiskey slowly blinked his eyes open. His gaze moved aimlessly around the room before finally landing on you, although there were no signs of recognition so it was unclear how much of what he was seeing that were actually registering. He opened his mouth and tried to speak but only a soft wheezing noise came out. He closed his eyes and you moved closer, wanting to tell him not to go back to sleep again. He looked so pale and it scared you.

When Whiskey opened his eyes for a second time, his eyes found yours again. He opened his mouth again to speak and this time he managed to get a single word out, though it was barely more than a whisper.

“Angel.”

You felt yourself pale as fear gripped you like an icy fist. Angels? Why was Whiskey seeing angels? Was something wrong? You'd looked at the monitors only a moment ago and everything had been fine. Was there something you were missing?

“W-what?” you asked, eyes wide and afraid. Whiskey looked at you and he must have seen your fear because a second later his eyes widened too. He opened his mouth and made a noise that sounded like a pained grunt. For a second you were at a complete loss at what you do. Whiskey was dying and seeing angels but you were monitoring _everything_ going on in his body and there was _nothing_ wrong. Broken bones and stitches, sure but there was nothing that should be killing him right this second.

Whiskey made the same sound again and then a third time before you realized that they weren't just grunts but him trying to speak. You leaned closer.

“Youu,” Whiskey wheezed.

“Me? Me what?” you asked and you could have sworn to God that Whiskey actually rolled his eyes at that.

“Angel,” he forced out and it took you a moment to realize. When you did, you dropped into the chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut and, with a relieved sigh, you leaned forward to rest your face against the mattress of his bed.

“Don't scare me like that,” you mumbled into the sheets, unsure if Whiskey would even hear you. He might have because you felt fingers move next to your face before the pad of one of Whiskey's fingers touched your left temple. Maybe you were just imagining but the touch felt like an apology. You stayed still for a little bit, letting Whiskey gently stroke the inch of skin which he could reach. It felt nice.

After a short while, Whiskey's finger stilled. When you turned your head slightly to look at him, his eyes were closed again but there was a small smile on his face.

You snuck out, as quietly as possible, not to wake him up.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“Hiya! How's Whiskey?” Tequila asked as you entered the office next to Harry's cell. You threw a glance at the one-way mirror and saw Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed, scribbling something into a notebook.

“He's...as good as can be expected... considering...” you told him and Tequila looked relieved. You knew the two agents had worked together on several missions and despite them bickering like an old married couple it was obvious to everyone that they cared for each other. “Give him a day or so to wake up a bit more and then you can go see him, if you like,” you added and Tequila shrugged.

“We'll see,” he said, “Don't want him to think I miss him too much. Besides, I quite enjoy the peace and quiet around here without his constant hurrying about.”

It was a lie and you both knew it. Besides, the base had been anything but peaceful and quiet for the past two days. You and Tequila had been spared since you were both otherwise occupied, with Whiskey and Harry respectively, but the rest of the base was in a state of organized chaos trying to make sense of the sudden surge of violence all over the world yesterday. There were a couple of other agents who'd also been hurt yesterday but those injuries had been minor enough that they either had taken care of them by themselves or they'd been taken care of by the rest of the medical team once they got back. Whiskey seemed to be the only one from the Statesmen who'd suffered any severe damage, although the death toll among the civilians were staggering.

The agents that had been out on missions when the violence happened all had similar stories of what had gone down. They described that it had been as if a sudden rage had taken control over them and they had been powerless to stop it, hadn't even wanted to stop it. Then, just as suddenly as it had flared up, the rage had disappeared and it had only been then that the agents had realized the consequences of their actions. A couple of them had killed civilians. Two of them had tried killing each other but luckily neither had managed. Tonic had set up shop in Champs office all day to gather as much information as possible about what had gone down. You did not doubt that Whiskey would be put through the same questioning as soon as he was well enough to talk.

No one had any clue why the violence had happened but Ginger was confident that it had something to do with the extreme low-frequency signal she had picked up before bringing Harry in. Speaking of. You nodded in Harry's direction.

“What is he doing?” you asked. Tequila turned to look as well before he answered.

“Drawing, I think,” he said with an almost soft smile in Harry's direction, “He asked for some pen n' paper earlier and I figured there wouldn't be any harm in giving him that.”

“So Tonic has cleared him for handling sharp objects then?” you asked a little curiously and Tequila paled and stuttered. You held your hands up in a calming gesture.

“I'm sure it's fine. If I were him, I would want to figure out where I was before killing myself or anyone else.”

Tequila didn't look at all comforted by this.

“All the same, we should probably...” he said and got up from his chair, while gesturing vaguely towards Harry's cell. You nodded.

“He's due for his medical check-up anyway.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The check-up went quick and painless. Harry sat patiently on the edge of his bed while you examined the healing wound under his eye-patch and at the back of his head. All was looking good and healing properly. You asked him about any pain, loss of motor function, or if he had noticed anything strange or painful besides the memory loss. Harry shook his head and said that besides not having any memories from half of his life, everything was just fine. You noted the tone of sarcasm in his voice and gave him an apologetic smile.

As you examined Harry, Tequila tried to stealthily smuggle the pen into his back pocket. It wasn't something you or Harry noticed as he was doing it but it became obvious once the examination was done and Harry turned to pick up his notebook again.

“My pen,” he said, looking at the floor around the table, “It must have rolled off...Do either of you see it?”

You shook your head in mock confusion but Tequila immediately folded and blurted out his confession.

“I took it!” he admitted.

“Oh?” Harry said, confused. You looked at Tequila with a raised eyebrow. You did know for a fact that they let this man out on undercover missions, and that he almost always came back successful, but after the display you had just witnessed you definitely began to wonder just how he managed that if this was him under pressure to lie.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Tequila said, straightening his back, “I know I said you could has it but then my colleague here reminded me that we don't want you to hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself? On a pen?” Harry asked with a frown before he let out another “Oh...” he cleared his throat and looked between you and Tequila.

“Mister...Tequila, miss...Moonshine. Let me assure you that I am in no danger of hurting myself. It seemed I've cheated death once already, for which I am very grateful. Now I simply wish to get well enough that you would allow me to go home...as soon as we figure out where that is.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tequila begin to reach for his back pocket so you quickly spoke.

“I'm sorry, Harry. It's just the protocol. But I'll try and have To... _Tom_ come by later to talk to you about having some pens in here.”

Harry looked a little disappointed but he nodded and resigned to a penless afternoon.

You and Tequila stuck around a bit longer to talk to Harry. You found out that what he had been drawing in the notebook were butterflies. He told you that it calmed him. Tequila looked at the drawings with something akin to awe and declared Harry a proper artist. You and Harry laughed at the young agent's excitement.

When you and Tequila eventually had to leave, you both felt a little bad but Harry assured you that it was okay. He had books to read until Tonic/Tom got there.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You swung by Whiskey's room on the way back to your office to write today's report. He was sleeping again so you only stayed a couple of minutes to check on him. Before you left, you stopped at his bedside and reached out to stroke a lock of dark hair from his forehead. Checking for a fever, you told yourself, even though you had his exact temperature on a screen to your left.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Over the next few days, things calmed down on several fronts.

Tequila and Tonic took turns keeping Harry company. The Englishman had been cleared to get his pens back and spent most of his days drawing. Harry was a sweet and caring man and the more time either of you spent with him, the harder it was to believe that he was actually intelligence. Every time the door opened to his cell, Harry started and then apologized for being startled. He was a proper English gentleman. One day you had walked into the office next to the cell, only to find it empty, and as you looked into Harry's cell through the mirror and saw Harry in the middle of teaching Tequila how to properly make tea. The younger agent had looked deeply concentrated.

The agency still wasn't sure about the motive behind the violent attacks all around the globe but Ginger had managed to trace the source of the extreme low-frequency waves to peoples' cellphones and a couple of days later news reached the world that billionaire Richmond Valentine had passed away. The exact cause of death wasn't revealed but the timing of it all was highly suspicious.

The Statesmen had also sent several people from the medical department out to assist at various hospitals, that were now filled to the brim with people hurt in the attacks. Only you and two others of the medics stayed behind, in case of an emergency and to care for Whiskey.

Whiskey was slowly but steadily getting better by the day. He was still weak and, even though he refused to admit it when anyone besides you were in the room, he was in a lot of pain. You spent more time with him than strictly needed, from a medical point of view, but both of you enjoyed the company.

Whiskey had no memory of what had happened but he found the anecdote about him scaring you with the angel comment highly amusing and laughed out loud, before promptly doubling over in pain and turning pale as a sheet. You kept the amusing anecdotes to a minimum after that.

Tonic came in to question him about what had happened during the attack. Whiskey's story was similar to the others. He explained that he had been fine when he was alone in the room and talking to you, but as soon as the other man had gotten in through the door the rage had consumed Whiskey too and they had fought in the room, outside the room, running down several flights of stairs before Whiskey had managed to overtake him. Whiskey hadn't noticed the other man who came running at him with a knife before it was too late and he'd been stabbed and thrown out the window. After that, he didn't remember much.

Tonic had written it all down before disappearing again. When he left, Whiskey slumped down on the bed with a pained sigh. Without him asking, you gave him some painkillers.

“Thank you, angel,” he whispered.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

A couple of weeks later you walked into Whiskey's hospital room only to stop dead in your tracks as soon as you crossed the threshold. The bed was empty. You looked around the room, even though there were no places in the room to hide.

Frowning, you hurried back outside and found Vermouth by one of the computers in the other room.

“Whiskey's room is empty!” you said a little too loudly and she jumped before realizing it was you.

“Yes,” she said, “He left two hours ago and...Boss, I know you know what you're doing but should he really be up and out of the hospital already?”

You blinked, confused by the sudden incompetence in your otherwise very skilled colleague.

“What? No, of course he shouldn't! Why would you even let him leave?”

Now Vermouth looked equally confused.

“But he said you'd given him permission to go home for the day. Hell, he even had a signed note from you.”

The two of you looked at each other as the puzzle pieces began falling into place.

_Fucking Whiskey!_

“If I murder him,” you began, “Will you help me bury the body where Champ won't find it?”

Vermouth nodded, trying to keep a straight face and not smile.

“Of course, Boss. And if we can't find a good digging spot, might I suggest hiding him in one of the old liquor barrels?”

“Excellent idea! I'll call you when I find him.”

“Good luck!” Vermouth called after you as you left the office.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You banged hard on the door of the apartment before taking a step back and crossing your arms over your chest. It took almost two minutes before you heard the lock click open and you had just begun to entertain the thought of kicking the door in when Whiskey opened. He was still wearing the medical department's gray sweatpants, with one leg cut off to fit over the cast, but had somehow managed to wrangle himself out of the gray sweatshirt and into a white t-shirt with a red and gray plaid button-down shirt over. His Stetson was perched atop his head for the first time since he'd been injured. It was pushed back slightly to reveal more of his pale and tired face. There were circles under his eyes so dark they were almost purple and a slight stubble was unevenly sprinkled across his normally so clean-shaven jaw. He looked about two seconds away from toppling over.

“Moonshine...” he said a little hesitantly, probably noticing the expression on your face.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded to know.

“I live here,” Whiskey replied and you honest-to-god stomped your foot in frustration. Whiskey noticed and raised an eyebrow. A smile began to form on his lips but then he met your angry gaze and he instead adopted a more somber expression.

“Why are you not in your hospital room?” you continued, “Vermouth said you told her _I_ gave you permission to go home. You even _faked_ a note?”

“Darlin', relax. I feel fine. I don't need to...”

“Really? And what degree in medicine makes you qualified to make that judgment?” you snapped, “Because last time I, your doctor, checked you had just broken several bones, been stabbed even more times and the wound in your side is still held together mostly by sheer will-power. So I wouldn't say you're _fine._ ”

Whiskey's jaw clenched slightly. He was annoyed with you, which was just as well because you were furious with him and his recklessness.

“I don't like being cooped up,” Whiskey shot back, crossing his own arms over his chest and only swaying a little as he let go of the support of the doorframe.

“And I don't like it when you're hurt!”

Whiskey's expression instantly softened.

“Moonshine...” he began.

“Don't _Moonshine_ me right now! I didn't spend hours stitching you up just so you could go out and tear those stab wounds open again. It's a miracle that stab to your side didn't hit anything vital.“

Whiskey opened his mouth to speak but you interrupted him before he could get anything out.

“You almost died!...and I was really worried.”

Any trace of annoyance was long gone from Whiskey's face. Instead, there was a softness and almost sadness in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized and you held your arms crossed in front of you.

“Yeah well...you should be,” you said, feeling a little calmer now that he'd admitted that you were right, “You're not well enough to be out yet.”

Whiskey pursed his lips and then he sighed.

“Alright, darlin'. Let me just turn off the TV and then I'm all yours.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the lovely Jasmine for being an awesome cheerleader and for helping me find the Whiskey voice <3

Over the next few weeks, the staff of the medical department slowly but surely began coming back to the HQ as more and more civilians recovered from the injuries they had sustained during what Whiskey had begun referring to as the Worldwide Freak Out. That meant things were picking up speed in the department and there was more and more admin work for you to do. You didn't really mind. It was nice to have more stuff to do again. But there was a small part of you that was a bit disappointed by the fact that more work meant less time spent with Whiskey.

The agent in question had, as soon as the cast on his leg had come off, been given a rigorously crafted schedule for physical exercise to get him back on track and back to working again as soon as possible. He took his training sessions very seriously and you suspected it was mostly in a desperate attempt to stay one step ahead of the boredom. There was an old (and faulty myth) that all sharks had to keep swimming or else they would die. If that statement had been true, Whiskey would have been one of those sharks. He didn't do stationary life very well.

After a while, you had started to keep him company on his training sessions, bringing a book to read while he exercised. He never asked you to work out with him, seemed perfectly content with just having you sit crosslegged in your scrubs on the mat closeby and read. However, most days, you didn't get as much reading done as you would have liked. There was something too fascinating about the cowboy agent stretching his body into various yoga poses while still wearing his Stetson. At least he was wearing actual workout pants and not his usual blue jeans, you had thought to yourself more than once.

Even though Whiskey was recovering remarkably well, the workouts took their toll on him and by the time the 20-minute mark rolled around, he was always a little paler than when he'd started and his hands trembled slightly as he accepted the water bottle that he always kept next to you.

The first time you'd told him that you wouldn't be able to keep him company for that day's training session because of other work, he'd looked so disappointed that you had immediately changed your mind, figuring that tomorrow was just as good for writing, if not better even. It took three more tries before you could actually hold your ground against his pleading eyes, though you suspected that a visit from Vermouth might also have made Whiskey dial down the wounded puppy look a bit. After that, you only joined him on Tuesdays and Fridays.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It was a little past lunchtime. Your stomach had been complaining about the lack of food for the better part of an hour but you stubbornly ignored it in favor of finishing up your work.

You made a low but frustrated growl as you were interrupted by a knock on the door to your office.

“Come in!” you snapped, loud enough for the interruptor to hear through the door, but you continued typing on your keyboard. The door creaked as it opened.

“Whoa there, darlin', your mouth said _enter_ but that tone of yours says maybe I shouldn't...” came the soft and slightly amused voice of Agent Whiskey. You quickly spun around in your chair to greet him.

“Whiskey!” you said, feeling something warm stir in your belly. Probably hunger. You smiled and a mirroring smile spread across his lips. He was leaning on his crutches and the slight slump to his shoulders told you that he was already tired, despite it only being midday.

“Hiya, sugar. Am I interrupting something?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, no. I was just finishing up,” you lied and waved him inside. As he hopped over to your desk, his eyes landed on the open document on your screen, which was obviously nowhere near done. You quickly shut off the monitor. Whiskey didn't say anything, but the small smile on his lips looked smug.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, before he could comment on anything.

“Better now that I'm here,” he answered with a smarmy smile. You rolled your eyes at him.

“You do know that being in close proximity to a doctor isn't enough to heal you, right?” you teased.

“It's a hypothesis I'm willing to try,” he said in a dangerously low voice and leaned in. Your heart suddenly felt like it was beating in your throat, fast as a rabbit's. You knew that was physically impossible but swore that was what it felt like. Whiskey stopped, with a few inches to spare between your noses. “Hmm, as I suspected. Significantly better,” he said, with a grin.

“At what p-value?” you asked, voice barely more than a shrill whisper. Whiskey frowned.

“What?” he asked, his flirty smile giving way for confusion. You swallowed.

“You have to specify at what p-value the results are significant,” you explained.

“Oh, as high as it gets, honey,” Whiskey said, the flirty grin coming back with full force. You opened your mouth to protest but before you have a chance to, Whiskey pulled back and you could breathe again.

“I actually had a reason for coming over here, besides to interrupt your work,” Whiskey went on and leaned his hip against your desk.

Your voice still wasn't quite back to normal so you just raised your eyebrows as a response. Whiskey lowered his gaze, picked a little the handle of his crutch before looking up at you again.

“See I was hopin' that maybe you would let me make you dinner tomorrow night...”

You blinked. “Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” he echoed.

“I mean, yes. That would be nice...Thank you.”

Whiskey beamed before chuckling.

“Well, aren't you polite.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall, “I should get going, I have a meeting with Champ soon and it's gonna take me at least 15 minutes to hobble over there. But tomorrow it is!”

You nodded.

“Oh, and Moonshine?” he added.

“Yes?” you asked.

“No scrubs tomorrow, alright. This ain't a work-meeting.”

And with that, he left.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You stood outside of Whiskey's door the next evening and you didn't think you had ever felt this uncomfortable in your life. You had told Ginger about the dinner plans, the day before. She had offered to help you with the clothes and had then dragged you off to the Statesmen wardrobe, where they held all the clothes that had been bought and used for various previous missions. You had told Ginger that you had perfectly good clothes in your room but she had just looked you up and down before simply stating that “Not for this occasion, you don't”. She hadn't specified what kind of occasion that was. And, standing outside of Whiskey's apartment in a pair of blue jeans that were so tight they might as well have been painted on and wearing a gray top with a neckline that plunged so low that open-heart surgery could probably have been performed on you without having to remove the top, you still weren't sure just what kind of occasion you had been dressed for.

Your sternum felt cold. You didn't think you had ever worn a shirt that made your sternum cold. You pulled a little on the fabric, feeling awkward, before reaching up to knock on the door.

Whiskey could be heard hopping on his crutches on the other side of the door.

“Moonshine, you're just in t...” Whiskey began as he pushed the door open but then he just stopped. His mouth fell open slightly and he just stared. You felt like turning around to run. Whiskey was wearing a clean white buttondown shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, paired with his usual pair of jeans. He looked nice but he still looked like himself. Unlike you.

You waited patiently for the rest of Whiskey's sentence but it never came. You were a little tempted to wave your hand in front of him, just to make sure time hadn't stopped. But you could hear the radio playing somewhere in his apartment so it must just be you that were giving him pause.

“Hi,” you said, trying to help him back to the present, and it worked. Whiskey closed his mouth and gave you a warm smile.

“Sorry, darlin'. It just caught this ol' cowboy by surprise seeing you in clothes other than those scrubs of yours.”

“You told me I wasn't allowed to wear them,” you reminded him.

“I did. And knowing you, I figured there was about a 50% chance that you would listen,” Whiskey laughed and took a small hop forward to give you a swift kiss of the cheek. His cheek was clean-shaven and smooth against yours and he was wearing cologne. “Welcome, sugar, I'm glad you could make it.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“Is something the matter, darlin'?”

You stilled in your seat and stopped fidgeting with the fabric of your shirt as you were trying to make sure that is was still covering all the bits it was supposed to cover, even after you had reached for another piece of the truly amazing chicken that Whiskey had cooked for you.

You didn't immediately answer. Didn't want to complain. Whiskey had prepared a fantastic meal, and had even brought out candles and a tablecloth for the occasion. He'd entertained you with stories from his travels and if there was anything agent Whiskey was good at, it was telling a good story. Normally, you would have been completely enthralled, but tonight you couldn't quite focus. And Whiskey had noticed.

“You've been pulling at that shirt of yours for the better part of the evening,” he continued when you didn't answer him, “And while that would usually be enough to drive any man crazy, I feel like I should ask... would you be more comfortable in a different shirt? I'd be more than happy to lend you something.”

You only hesitated for a second before nodding, feeling a little bit like a child by the fact that you apparently couldn't even dress yourself for one night out of your scrubs. Whiskey only seemed pleased by your answer, however, and he stood from the table and gestured for you to follow him into the bedroom.

You had never been in Whiskey's bedroom last time you were here so now you seized the opportunity to look around. The better part of the room was taken up by a huge bed, with a wooden bed frame that almost looked homemade. The sheets were dark blue and the bed was meticulously made. Atop of one of the bedposts hung his lasso. There was a wooden closet pushed up against one of the walls and it matched the material of the bed frame. A pair of brown cowboy boots hade been kicked off into one of the corners and on a hook on the wall hung a bathrobe with the pattern of the American flag. It looked soft. The whole room was so Whiskey it was almost hilarious. The only things missing would have been a small bar and a hat rack full of Stetsons.

Whiskey emerged from the closet with a simple white t-shirt that he held up for your inspection.

“Will this fit the lady's preferences?” he asked and you nodded without really looking. Any shirt would be better than the uncomfortable mess you were currently wearing. Whiskey handed you the shirt with a teasing grin.

“I suppose sticking around to make sure is out of the question?”

You snatched the shirt from his hand and held it to your chest as you slapped his arm with your other hand. Whiskey just laughed.

“I'll be out in the kitchen then. Just holler if you need me,” he said with a wink before disappearing from the room and closing the door behind him. You waited for a few seconds, not entirely trusting that he wouldn't conveniently remember something that he just had to tell you now, before you changed.

The t-shirt was about 100 times more comfortable than your own top and you no longer had to worry about any bodyparts escaping when you moved. The shirt also smelled of Whiskey, which you had to admit, was an added bonus, even if you weren't sure exactly why.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

After dinner, you helped Whiskey clean up. Not because he asked you but because you had noticed his shoulders beginning to slump from overexertion by the end of the meal, even though he put on a brave face trying to cover it up.

He protested when you told him you'd do the dishes, but you could hear that he only half meant it, and when you began filling up the sink with water, he just picked up a towel and told you that he'd help dry the things you cleaned.

You didn't talk much while you worked and it was quite nice. You caught Whiskey watching you out of the corner of his eye more than once and every time you assured him that it's fine and that you didn't mind doing the dishes.

“That's not...” he began but he didn't finish the sentence and you didn't push.

When the dishes were done, Whiskey told you that he'd be walking you back to your room. This time it was your turn to protest, telling him that it was fine, that you could find your way home on your own and that he should rest instead.

“I'm walking you back to your room,” Whiskey told you again, in a voice that left zero room for discussion. You knew a lost cause when you saw one and so you just sighed.

“Fine, but don't complain to me when you're tired and sore tomorrow.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep, sugar,” was Whiskey's only reply and you frowned, not quite understanding what he meant.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It took twice as long for you to walk back to your room with Whiskey, as it had taken to walk over to his place without him. Whiskey's jaw was tightly clenched as he slowly limped forward with his crutches. You stopped and pretended that you had to retie your shoelaces, twice, to give him short breaks that you knew he would refuse to ask for.

When you reached the door to your room, his lips were almost worryingly pale, but when he saw your frown he gave you a warm smile.

“Don't start working just yet, darlin'. You're still off the clock,” he said.

“Your lips are very pale,” you told him.

“Maybe they're just cold?” he countered, with a pout. You rolled your eyes and shook your head with a smile.

“Goodnight, Whiskey. This was really nice,” you said instead, and you meant it. This had been a really great evening and you were glad that he had invited you over, even if the doctor part of your brain wished that he hadn't made such a fuzz and instead had opted for something simpler that required less energy from him. Whiskey smiled softly at you.

“It was, wasn't it...” He trailed off, looking like he wanted to say something more.

“What?” you prompted him and he looked up and met your gaze. His impossibly soft brown eyes held your eyes for a moment before he looked down with an almost shy smile.

“Oh darlin', I'm just debating whether or not to push my luck this evening,” he said but you were still confused. This wasn't quite following the usual script for saying goodnight.

“Moonshine,” Whiskey said, his voice unusually serious as he leaned forward slightly on his crutches, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the plastic of the handles, “Tonight has been magical and I'm fully aware I should pull in my horns before I get greedy... but Honey...Darlin...you know I'm sweet on ya and... a better man than me would wish you sweet dreams and walk away. But I'm not that better man and I can't help but hope for just a little more...”

“Oh?” you said, blinking. _You know I'm sweet on ya_... _You know I'm **sweet** on ya... _You knew Whiskey was _fond_ of you, that he _cared_ for you. He'd shown that in a hundred different ways. But that kind of fondness wasn't what he was confessing to now, if his whole body language and the hesitation behind every word was anything to go by. No, this was something else, something more, and he thought you already knew. You felt a little lightheaded.

“A little more of what?” you asked, just to be sure, and Whiskey let out a breath you hadn't noticed he'd been holding. A hopeful smile began spreading across his lips.

“Well, with lips like those, maybe a kiss would be a good place to start?” he suggested and your stomach did a flip.

“I've never kissed anyone before,” you said and it came out sounding almost a bit hostile, like you were daring Whiskey to make the wrong comment in response. You'd seen other people's reactions when you'd previously mentioned your lack of experience and while you weren't entirely sure exactly what response you _did_ want from him, you knew that pity wasn't it.

Whiskey looked surprised for a moment but then he quickly recovered.

“I'd be thrilled as any man can be to be your first, if you'd let me,” he said.

You nodded and stepped forward, figuring that since he was the injured one, he should get to remain stationary for this. Besides, you knew... in theory, how this was done. Whiskey made a surprised laugh when you gripped the front of his shirt with both hands to pull him in those last couple of inches. The laugh was cut short when your mouth pressed against his.

His lips were soft as velvet and the mustache tickled your upper lip. There was a deafening clatter in the empty corridor as one of Whiskey's crutches fell to the floor. A second later, his hand curved around the back of your neck and his lips began moving against yours. An unfamiliar heat pooled low in your belly and you gripped Whiskey's shirt a little tighter to steady yourself.

When you both finally pulled back, an eternity and at the same time not long enough later, Whiskey looked at you as if you'd hung the Moon.

“How was that?” he asked and, despite the cocksure smile on his face, there was a faint note of genuine worry to his tone of voice.

“I would like to do that again sometime,” you told him. Whiskey beamed and the smile was bright enough that it could probably have lit up all of Kentucky. He leaned in for another, and to your disappointment, much quicker kiss.

“I'd be happy to help with that,” he said when he pulled back. Your cheeks felt warm and somehow you knew that if you didn't go inside your room now, you'd ask Whiskey to come with you and he was not well enough for that.

So you blurted out a quick goodnight and before Whiskey could get a reply in, you hurried into your room and closed the door. With your ear pressed against the metal, you thought you could hear a faint chuckle before Whiskey left.

You reached up to touch your lips. You just _kissed Whiskey._


	6. Chapter 6

You woke up the next morning with the scent of agent Whiskey tickling your nose and it made you smile even before you opened your eyes. You were still wearing his t-shirt, which was also the source of the scent, and you grabbed more of the fabric and pulled it up to your nose.

The memory of last night's goodbye played vividly in your mind and you could feel your pulse quickening just at the thought of that kiss. Whiskey liked you, properly  _ liked _ you. You thought maybe you liked him too, knew that you liked the idea of him liking you, at least. Maybe you could ask Tonic about it - or would that be considered wildly unprofessional? You might have to ask him about that first.

Whiskey had said he wanted to kiss you again. But when? Was it your turn to make him dinner now? You were a lousy cook but maybe you could find something simple to make? You frowned.

The pleasant feeling you had woken up with was slowly but surely simmering away as the  _ what now _ s came creeping in. The nervous feeling that replaced it stayed with you for the better part of the day and you felt a bit off-kilter, in a way you weren't used to.

When someone knocked at your door later that afternoon you jumped from your seat and stared wide-eyed at the door for a couple of seconds before calling out for whoever was on the other side of the door to come inside.

The door opened and your shoulders slumped in both disappointment and relief when it wasn't Whiskey that entered, but Agent Sherry's considerably larger frame.

“Hiya, Doc,” he said in his dark and rumbly voice. When he spoke you always half-expected the deep bass of his voice to make the water in the glass on your desk to ripple. Glancing at the glass in question you noted that it hadn't quite, this time either.

Agent Sherry was a tall and sizeable gentleman whose calm was infectious. Ginger had told you that he'd been a horse wrangler before joining the Statesmen and if there was anyone you believed capable of calming down those giant animals, it was Agent Sherry.

“Are office hours still open?” he asked and you nodded, motioning for him to step inside and take a seat.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, as your eyes began scanning him for any apparent injuries. He seemed to be walking just fine, didn't look particularly sick either.

“Just a minor incident with a car door,” he explained and held up his hand. You immediately noticed the swelling and when you stepped closer to gently take his hand you also saw that three of his fingers had ugly-looking bruises on them. You turned his hand over and saw the bruises bloomed on the underside of his fingers as well.

“Can you bend them?” you asked and flexed your own fingers in demonstration. Sherry nodded.

“I can, but it hurts... like a word I'd rather not say in front of a lady.” Slowly he bent his fingers and you saw the slight twitch of pain on his face.

“Let's give them an x-ray, just to be on the safe side,” you told him and motioned for him to follow you, “From experience, I know that it's easier to get you agents to take it a bit easier if there's an actual fracture I can point out to you.”

Sherry chuckled and this time you swore you could feel the sound vibrate in your chest.

You made quick work of x-raying agent Sherry's hand and studied the images closely for any damage. Fortunately, none of the bones were fractured but you still requested that agent Sherry take it a little bit easy until the bruising had faded.

He smiled, thanked you, and assured you that he would follow the doctor's orders. Then he tipped his hat in your direction before stepping out of the office. You had barely put the x-ray images away before he knocked on the door again.

“Did you forget something?” you asked, looking around the room, as you walked over to open the door.

Instead of Agent Sherry, you suddenly found yourself face to face with Whiskey, and your heart did some sort of skip-beat that could hardly be healthy for it.

“Whiskey...” you breathed.

“Moonshine,” he countered, flashing his teeth in a smile, “May I come in?”

You nodded and took a step to the side so he could hop past you further into the office. However, Whiskey stopped just inside the office and leaned his crutches against the wall as you closed the door around you. Then he stepped close, almost caging you in against the flat metal surface.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, low enough that it was almost a whisper, and reached up to touch your face. You thought that, if the look Whiskey was currently giving you was anything to go by, then you probably didn't need to cook him a meal to get to kiss him again. In fact, he was watching you like you  _ were  _ the meal.

“Hello,” you said, smiling back and tentatively reached up to touch the button of his breast pocket, mostly to have something to do with your hands. You wanted to touch him but you were unsure how or where would be appropriate after a first kiss.

Whiskey seemed to read the intent behind your awkward touch just fine, though, and he leaned in so that your noses bumped together gently. He waited for you to bridge the final inch, which you did, tilting your head so that your mouths could slot together.

It was just as soft as it had been yesterday when Whiskey's lips moved against yours this time. You wondered if all kissing was like this and, if so, why on Earth you had waited so long to experience it?

Your lips turned slick with your mixed saliva and you briefly wondered if Whiskey had laced his lips with morphine because you couldn't get enough of kissing him. You didn't even care about the possible health hazard of exchanging bodily fluids like this.

Every time it felt like Whiskey was about to pull away, you leaned forward to chase his mouth with yours, and before his lips could even part from yours, he leaned back in, and you swore that you could hear him chuckle into the kiss. His hand was splayed across your hip, whether to steady you or him, you weren't sure. Your hands were pressed hard against the metal of the door on either side of you. You didn't quite dare to touch him. With the way his kisses made you feel, it was like you didn't quite have control over your body. Your mind was screaming for you to grab him and pull him impossibly close, but Whiskey was still hurt, and you couldn't do that.

Whiskey reached up and gently pinched your chin between his thumb and index finger. Slowly and carefully he pulled down, making your mouth open just a fraction. Just as you wondered what he was doing, you suddenly felt the tip of his tongue glide between your lips and into your mouth, coaxing your tongue to meet his. Tentatively, you copied his movement, licking into his mouth. He tasted faintly of mint and something that you thought was purely Whiskey. It should have been strange, having your tongue in someone else's mouth, but somehow it wasn't, and much like with the close-mouthed kissing, Whiskey was an excellent teacher and you quickly figured out how to do it.

The two of you kissed until it felt like all the oxygen had run out in the room and your lips almost felt sore. It was Whiskey that pulled away first, but he was smiling so you weren't too worried that you'd done something wrong.

“I really liked that,” you commented when he didn't immediately say something. His smile widened and he stroked his thumb across your bottom lip.

“I could tell. I really did too, darlin'.”

Your stomach did a pleasant flip at his words and you found yourself returning his smile, feeling almost a bit giddy.

Whiskey took a small and slightly unsteady step back and you helped him reach for his crutches.

“I went home last night, fearing that I'd just passed out and dreamt the whole thing,” Whiskey confessed as he adjusted his grip on the crutches, “But if these kisses weren't real then surely I'd have skipped past unconsciousness and gone straight to Heaven.”

“Are you insinuating that I would actually let you die in my care?” you asked, crossing your arms across your chest but keeping the smile on your face so he would know you were joking.

“I'm not sure if  _ let _ is the word I'd use, but there are many dangerous things in this world. If dying was the only way to experience having you in my arms...” Whiskey said with a shrug.

“Don't be ridiculous, Whiskey!” you protested, rolling your eyes at his dramatics, “Besides, I am a very good doctor, and as long as I'm around, I'm not gonna let you die. Okay?”

Whiskey looked at you for a second before a mischievous grin tugged at his lips.

“Seal that promise with a kiss?” he asked and even though you knew you shouldn't encourage his antics, you were hopeless to resist when he reached for you again.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Kissing Whiskey was quickly becoming your favorite past time. He showed up at your office every day, sometimes just for a few minutes but other times he stayed long enough that it was you that had to break the kiss and kick him out of the office in order for you to get any work done.

It was just kissing. Logically, you knew there were probably other things on Whiskey's mind too – you were both adults after all – but he seemed perfectly content with just kissing you and never pushed for more. It was very nice of him and part of you really appreciated that he wasn't rushing you, but there was also a part of you that found it a little bit frustrating. Primarily because you were pretty sure that you wanted more, but didn't quite know how to go about asking. Every time Whiskey kissed you, there was a burning in your gut that had nothing to do with any bodily malfunctions. It felt hot and warm and pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. It made you want...something more. Made you want him closer even when his arms were already wrapped tightly around you and his mouth already on yours.

You thought about how to go about asking for that  _ something more _ , as you made your way to the cell where Harry was being held. Maybe you could just outright ask for it? Whiskey would probably understand what you meant.

You opened the door to the office next to Harry's cell and found Tequila snoring softly in the chair by the desk. You cleared your throat and he started awake, looking around in confusion.

“Mornin' Moonshine,” he greeted you, before his eyes quickly darted to the one-way mirror, through which you both could see Harry lying on his bed, reading a book.

“Have you been here all night?” you asked, taking in Tequila’s rumpled shirt and the empty dinner plate next to him on the desk. A slight flush stained the agent's cheeks and he mumbled something about dozing off. You didn't listen too closely to the excuses. Whatever Tequila chose to do with his own time, really wasn't any of your business.

“Would you mind coming with us for the EEG?” you asked, interrupting his string of explanations.

Even though Harry had been with you for quite some time now, and had shown no signs of being anything besides a very sweet man, you still weren't allowed to be alone with him. It would have been endlessly annoying if it weren't for the fact that Tequila had taken it upon himself to act as some sort of guardian for the Brit and therefore was almost always close by for whenever you needed to see Harry. Like today. You weren't completely convinced that Whiskey didn't have something to do with it as well, considering how he always made sure to ask about Tequila whenever Harry's name was mentioned.

Tequila got up from the chair, adjusted his hat, and smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt.

“Alright, let's get this E...G...something over with.”

“EEG,” you corrected him, as you went to fetch Harry.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

“Those things, they ain't gonna hurt him, right?” Tequila was sitting on the edge of the desk and watched with slight apprehension as you fastened the little electrodes on Harry's scalp. There was a slight note of worry to the agent's voice, which in turn made Harry look up at you as if it was only now that the thought had struck him. You shook your head to assure them both and fastened another electrode.

“It won't hurt,” you said when Tequila didn't look convinced.

“Moonshine, I'm sorry but it's just...when they show this on TV it looks like it would hurt.”

“I would rather avoid pain, if it is in any way possible,” Harry chipped in, a slight tremor to his normally eerily calm voice.

“Yeah,” Tequila agreed, “Isn't there something you could give him to, y'know make it hurt less?”

“They show this on TV?” you asked, having gotten stuck on that detail in particular. Surely there must be more exciting medical procedures to show to the masses for entertainment. You frowned and attached the last electrode to Harry's temple. Then it suddenly dawned on you.

“Tequila, you're thinking of electroshock therapy! Which is occasionally also wildly inaccurately portrayed in the movies, but that's not what we're gonna do, okay?” you explained and looked down at Harry to calm him too. “This isn't the same thing.”

They didn't look convinced. So you pulled up a chair and sat down where you could see them both.

“Harry, when you first came here, there was severe damage to parts of your brain. Now, we fixed that but you still haven't regained any of your memories and so what I wanna do is check and make sure everything is alright in there. These little electrodes measure brain activity and yes, it sorta has to do with electricity but it's because we measure the electrical impulses already in the brain. There will be no shocking and you won't feel any pain, I promise.”

Harry nodded slowly and his shoulders visibly relaxed as you finished your explanation. Tequila also looked reassured. And Tonic said you didn't have good bedside manners. You had to try hard not to look too smug.

“Alright, great,” you said, standing back up again. “Let's get started. Tequila, I'm gonna need for you to leave the room for this.”

“What?” he asked, immediately tensing up again.

“I want you out of the room,” you repeated as if the problem was that he hadn't heard you.

“But we have our instructions...” he said, but the worried look was aimed at Harry, which made you wonder whether it was really  _ your  _ well-being he was trying to insure.

“And I have my job to do,” you argued, walking towards him with a shooing motion, “ I need as few distractions as possible for this. You are a distraction. You can stand outside the door and wait. Everyone's gonna be fine.”

“We'll be okay, Tequila. I promise. I don't want to hurt anyone,” Harry told him and his soft comment proved more effective than your brash assurances in calming the agent down.

“Fine. But if any of y'all make a noise that sounds suspicious, I'm comin' right back in!”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It turned out that, just as you had suspected, there had been no reason for a bodyguard in the room. For either of you. Harry was being the most cooperative patient, as usual, and you even tried to make some polite small-talk in order to make him feel even more at ease. Most of the time was spent in silence, though, as Harry had his eyes closed and just breathed slowly, as you scanned the output data from the electrodes on your screen. You were nearing the end of the session. Just had a couple of more things to check left.

Suddenly the door burst open and both you and Harry screamed loud. The data on the screen went bananas and your initial fear was instantly replaced by anger. Spinning your chair around to demand Tequila explained just what the fuck he was playing at, you were instead met with the scowling face of agent Whiskey. His eyes were red-rimmed like they had been running and his jaw was clenched so tight that you wouldn't be surprised if you heard teeth cracking. His right hand was resting firmly on the gun in its holster.

“Whiskey?” you said, surprised and slightly worried by his appearance, “What are you...”

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Whiskey interrupted in a harsh tone, “Champ gave us all very specific orders regarding the  _ guest.  _ Always an agent present!”

You stared back at him, feeling heat of a different kind than the usual one churn in your belly. Kissing him was the last thing you wanted to do when Whiskey was talking to you like a disobedient child.

“And if you hadn't barged in here like a...gorilla, you might have noticed Tequila just outside the door!” You pointed aggressively at the door, “Agent present! The regulations said nothing about the agent having to sit on my stupid lap while I worked!”

Whiskey took a deep breath, his nostrils flared.

“Come on, let's go,” he said, waving you over. You crossed your arms over your chest and jutted your chin out.

“No,” you told him.

“Moonshine, just...”

“I said  _ No _ . You've just ruined my work and scared my patient. Get out of my office, Whiskey!”

Whiskey looked like he was about to continue arguing but before he could say anything, Tequila cleared his throat from the doorway.

“Doc's right, Jack. We had it all under control. She's a sharp one and I wouldn't have let anything happen.”

Whiskey looked between the two of you, something like sadness flashing across his expression before he nodded sharply.

“Fine,” was all he said before angrily walking out of the room.

You turned back to the computer and busied yourself with shutting down the monitoring program. In actuality, you didn't want Tequila or Harry to see your face as your lip trembled and you blinked back the unwelcome tears that had begun welling up. You felt confused and hurt but what had just happened. Whiskey's anger had been uncalled for, for so many reasons. The lack of faith in your abilities to look out for yourself was also insulting. And, even though that wasn't highest on the list of priorities, you were genuinely upset that the monitoring data had been ruined.

As if reading your mind, Harry spoke from behind you.

“I'm sorry, Moonshine. If it helps, we can start over again.”

Collecting yourself, you nodded and turned.

“Thank you. Let's get some lunch first, though.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You had a difficult time completely focusing on your work for the rest of the day. Part of you wanted Whiskey to come back and explain himself, but when he called you as you and Tequila had just escorted Harry back to his cell after the second session with the EEG, you just stared at the screen until the call went to voicemail. Tequila saw it but didn't say anything.

“I'm heading back to my room,” you told him and he nodded.

“Imma...stick around here for a bit,” he replied.

“Say goodnight to Harry from me,” you told him, with a small smile, and he averted his gaze. You hung the lab coat on a hook on the wall and waved at Tequila before heading out into the corridor.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You were on your way up the stairs when someone called your name from behind. You turned and saw Tonic heading towards you. His long legs made taking the stairs two steps at the time look unfairly easy.

“On your way home for the night?” he asked cheerfully, shaking a strand of hair from his face. You nodded and continued walking, with him falling into step beside you.

“Have you had a good day?” you asked, knowing how Tonic was partial to small-talk. He gave you a knowing smile as if he knew exactly what you were doing but he still answered your question.

“I have, thank you. I'm sorry I couldn't come with you for Harry's EEG but Ginger and I were working on the trauma folders all day. Got Jack's done today, by the way. Thought you might want to know.”

You halted in your step and swiveled your head around to face him.

“Whiskey had his trauma interview today?” you asked. Whiskey hadn't told you that was today. You had thought he would, considering you had been pestering him about getting it done ever since he was well enough after the accident. “Did...did it go okay?” you asked.

“As well as can be expected when we ask people to bring up painful memories,” Tonic replied, “We got through the interview and gave him the day off after that.”

You didn't immediately reply and Tonic, of course, noticed.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“He showed up when we were doing the EEG...Whiskey, I mean. He was angry and he yelled,” you explained and started walking again.

“Oh,” Tonic replied, “Sounds like you think the reaction was uncalled for.”

“It was,” you told him, “And I didn't get why he would yell at me like that but...

“But maybe it was my fault?” Tonic supplied, with a small smile.

“No, it's still his fault,” you protested, “He's a grown man. You don't treat people like that. But maybe he was extra sensitive or something because of the interview. He always worries that I'll get injured or that Harry will somehow end up hurting me, he just doesn't usually yell at me about it.”

“Ah...,” Tonic said, chewing his lip, “You know, after the afternoon he's had, I think a slightly over-protective streak is to be expected. I'm not saying that you should let him get away with behaving badly but...let's just say there's a bit of a reason for it that has nothing to do with you.”

“Are you saying I should talk to him?” you asked.

“Well, I am a bit partial to the talking,” Tonic joked, and opened the door to your corridor, “But I'm not telling you to do anything. Both Whiskey and you are adults and I am off the clock.”

You gave him a skeptical look.

“Neither of us is ever off the clock,” you said. He shrugged.

“Alright, fine! But I don't want to meddle in other people's relationships if I can avoid it. It tends to come back and bite me in the ass. And now I'm heading back to my apartment. Goodnight, Moonshine!“

“See you tomorrow, Tonic!” you said with a small wave. It was only after he'd left and the door behind him had closed when you realized that he'd insinuated that you and Whiskey were in a relationship. Were you?

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

You'd already gone to bed when the phone rang again. It was Whiskey's name on the display. Tonic's words echoed in your head and on the next ring, you decided to pick up.

“Hello?” you said, a little hesitantly. You heard a loud sigh on the other end.

“Moonshine,” Whiskey said, relief evident in his voice.

“Hey...”

“Darlin', I'm a fool!” Whiskey stated and the softness with which he called you  _ darlin' _ made your lip tremble slightly again. You closed your eyes and pressed the phone closer to your ear. “I shouldn't have yelled like that. Not at you.”

“No, you shouldn't have,” you agreed, speaking slowly to keep your voice steady.

Whiskey was silent for a couple of seconds before he spoke.

“Moonshine, I'm sorry.”

“I knew what I was doing...”

“I know you did.” You could hear the pleading in his voice. “You're the best damn doctor there is!”

“And I wasn't in any danger.”

“I know. I just...” You heard him swallow and let out a shaky breath. You sighed, feeling your annoyance drain away slightly.

“Tonic told me that you had your trauma interview today.

There was silence again before he slowly answered.

“I did.”

You cupped the phone with both your hands, suddenly wishing that he was here so you could see him and touch him.

“And are you okay?” you asked softly.

There was no reply. You pressed the phone closer to your ear and you could hear Whiskey's breathing. His breaths were sharp, uneven intakes of air. It was like a stab to your chest as well when you realized that Whiskey was crying.

“Whiskey...” you whispered, unsure what else to say.

“I'm okay, sweetheart,” he tried to assure you but you didn't feel very convinced. “Today's just been a day and a half as far as emotions go. Please ignore this, sugar. I was fixin' to apologize to you properly for bein' a shit earlier.”

“Well, you already called me the best damn doctor there is. I mean, I don't see how you're gonna top that, as far as apologies go,” you said, only half-joking. You heard Whiskey chuckle a little.

“I was thinkin’ dinner and dessert. Maybe a massage.”

“I've never gotten a massage,” you said, thoughtfully.

“Well, I'm quite good at them...” Whiskey drawled, nose sounding a little stuffed still but you could practically hear the smirk too.

“I could come over tomorrow,” you suggested.

“That would be perfect,” Whiskey agreed, “And Moonshine...I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

“And I realize that I'm in no position to bargain here but... you think I can ask you for a favor?”

“What favor?” you asked, but you were pretty sure you were gonna say yes, regardless.

“I think, as soon as I lay down, I'm gonna be minutes away from sleeping. Would you stay with me on the phone?” he asked and you almost suggested that you just come over instead, but Whiskey actually sounded as tired as he told you he was, and even if you left your room now, he'd probably be sleeping before you got there.

“Okay, I'll stay with you.”

“Tell me about your day,” he requested, “What did you do before I barged in?”

And so you did. You told him about breakfast and finding Tequila asleep in the office. Then you told him about Harry's EEG, explaining what it was and what you might find out from the data. Slowly but surely, you heard Whiskey's breathing even out as he drifted off to sleep.

“Goodnight, Whiskey,” you whispered quietly when you were sure he wouldn't miss you if you hung up. On impulse, you lifted the phone to your lips and pressed a kiss to the screen before you hung up.


	7. Chapter 7

The next evening, you knocked on Whiskey's door at precisely seven o'clock. You were wearing more sensible clothes this time – just a pair of jeans and a simple navy blue linen shirt - so you already felt significantly more relaxed than the last time you’d been here. Whiskey hadn't given you a specific dress code for tonight but you had guessed that scrubs were still off the table as an option. Besides, your last patient of the day had managed to bleed on you and since you needed to change anyway, you thought you could just as well dress as a civilian for once.

When Whiskey opened the door, you barely had time to say hi before he stepped outside and enveloped you in a tight hug.

“I'm an idiot, Moonshine,” he mumbled.

“I thought we already established that last night,” you told him, but you raised your arms to wrap them around him too so he would know that you weren't angry. 

As far as you were concerned, Whiskey had already apologized and unless he was planning on storming into your office to yell again, you had already forgiven him. You had never been particularly good at holding a grudge and talking to Tonic had provided a bit more insight into _why_ Whiskey had behaved the way he did. You could remember at least a couple of instances in your past when you had lashed out and yelled because you were sad or frightened. Whiskey was only human too.

“We did,” Whiskey replied, pulling back but still clasping your hands in his, “But I want to apologize again.”

“You don't have to...besides, wasn't the food and massage supposed to be the additional apology?”

Whiskey smiled and nodded at that.

“They are. And the food is almost done. Come on in!”

He didn't give you much choice in the matter as he still held onto your hand when he turned and walked back into the apartment. You followed him, and it wasn’t only because you were currently attached to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

There were lit candles on the table tonight as well but overall tonight's dinner felt less formal than the previous one. It was like the air between the two of you was filled with less uncertainty. You supposed that was only to be expected. Even if you hadn't realized it at the time, Whiskey had been trying to woo you the previous time you were here. It had been a date. Tonight... you weren't sure what tonight was – besides an apology dinner. Maybe a date. You liked that idea, liked thinking about being on a date with Whiskey, especially since you hadn't gotten a chance to think much about that last time.

You didn't let Whiskey pull the chair out for you – questioned the very purpose for it, and Whiskey caved when he couldn't come up with a good reason either – but he insisted on serving you the food and you agreed to that. For tonight’s dinner, Whiskey had made some sort of beef chili. It was delicious, but spicier than your usual food, making your nose a bit runny as you ate. Whiskey just smiled at that.

“Sorry, did I go a bit overboard with the seasoning?” he asked as you sniffled slightly.

“No no, it tastes amazing! I'm just not used to so much flavor,” you assured him. He shook his head.

“It's because you insist on only eating what is served in the mess hall,” Whiskey commented. He stood up from the table and, despite your protests, fetched you a small bowl of yogurt. He kissed your cheek as he set it down next to your plate.

“Don't want the chili to numb all sensation of your lips and mouth, for later, honey,” he said and pulled back to give you a wink.

“Kissing?” you asked, hopefully, as Whiskey sat back down opposite you.

“I was hoping so,” he replied, not quite able to contain his grin, “If I play my cards right.”

You didn't tell him that you thought he'd already played them well enough to warrant kisses.

Whiskey didn't elaborate further on the prospects of kissing and, instead, asked you about what your day had been like. You told him about the two broken fingers you had taped, the cut eyebrow you had stitched up and the concussion checks you had done on agent Mezcal and agent Vodka.

“But they haven't been on a mission today?” Whiskey interrupted, with a small frown. You shook your head, confirming his statement.

“Sparring,” you explained, and that made Whiskey laugh in a way that had his eyes crinkling up at the corners and made his teeth shine white in the warm light from the candles. The sight made you want to kiss him then and there.

“I truly love hearin' about your days, Moonshine,” he said, still smiling as he took a sip from his beer. “It's a side of the Statesman that I rarely get to see too much of.”

That statement made you snort out a laugh in disagreement, and Whiskey raised an eyebrow.

“Whiskey, I'd say that you come to my office often enough to get a pretty good idea of what it is I do,” you explained.

“You have makeout sessions with all your patients?” he asked, pretending to look shocked.

You rolled your eyes and balled up your napkin, throwing it at him. He caught it with a laugh before it could land in his mostly empty bowl. He handed it back to you and you got that funny feeling in your chest again, when he smiled at you like that.

“You know...”Whiskey began, braiding your fingers together. You looked down at your hands and thought they fit well together. Of course, you were very biased. “You do know that half the times I came over, it was only to see you, right?”

“I know. I _am_ the doctor,” you answered, wondering why he felt the need to state this very obvious fact to you.

“No,” Whiskey continued, using that voice he always used when you were missing something. You had learned to recognize it, even if it rarely offered any clues to help you figure out exactly what it was you were missing. Thankfully, Whiskey offered more than just that tone of voice. “I _mean_ I was looking for excuses to spend time with you. And since you so seldom leave that office of yours, I figured I needed to find reasons to come to you.”

Your mouth fell open slightly as the implications of what he was saying suddenly dawned on you.

“The whole time?” you asked and Whiskey shrugged.

“Pretty much,” he confessed.

“You mean you came to my office and made me worry about you because you wanted to just...hang out?” you asked a little indignant – mostly because you hadn't picked up on it sooner. “I read several of Tonic's books because of you... I went and talked to Champ because of you.”

“You talked to Champ about me?” Whiskey asked.

“Yes! You kept getting hurt or you weren't feeling well. I was worried.”

Whiskey ran a hand over the back of his neck and actually looked a bit ashamed at that. He looked like he was gearing up for another apology and you quickly decided that there was only so much apologizing that you could handle, especially when you were more surprised than angry. So you picked up your glass of water and took a sip before shaking your head with a tsking sound.

“You are insufferable,” you told him, affectionately. That made him stop his worrying and it only took a second for the flirty smile to return to his face.

“But you think I'm a bit charming too, right?”

“I'll save my judgment until after dessert.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dessert turned out to be chocolate brownies with raspberries and whipped cream. They tasted so incredible and you couldn't help but moan in appreciation as you took your first bite. You pretended not to hear the teasing remark from Whiskey about it.

Just like last time, you helped Whiskey with the dishes once the plates were empty and your bellies were full. Unlike last time, he wasn't exhausted enough to need the help but you still felt like helping. Just like last time, Whiskey picked up the towel and helped to dry the dishes off after they were cleaned.

It was sort of nice, just standing next to each other by the kitchen counter, shoulders brushing as you cleaned up after the meal. The two of you kept stealing glances at each other and smiled every time you caught the other one doing it. Before all the dishes were quite done, Whiskey suddenly put the towel down and grabbed your wet hands to wrap your arms around his neck as he pulled you close. You could feel water drip from your fingers onto his back but when you told Whiskey as much, he quickly shushed your concerns with his mouth. And with his lips on yours, you soon forgot about them too.

Whiskey tasted of chocolate and raspberries and even though you had eaten the exact same thing, the flavor tasted even better off his tongue so you greedily tangled your fingers in his hair and kissed him deeper. Whiskey seemed to have no objections to this and tightened his arms around you, in response.

You kissed until you were breathless and the water on your hands had long since dried. When you parted, Whiskey's lower lip looked even plumper than usual and there was a slight flush to his cheeks. He made a low whistle before taking a deep breath. You smiled, but when he leaned back in for more, you put your hands up on his chest to stop him.

“Maybe...we can do that massage now?” you suggested. Lust flashed in Whiskey's eyes and you felt something like nerves twist in your stomach. Not unpleasant, but a little distracting. As Whiskey took your hand and led you towards the bedroom, you thought about those hands touching even more of you and it made you tense with anticipation.

You stopped when you reached the door-opening to the bedroom. There were lit candles in here as well and you guessed they were also the source for the pleasant, warm, and spicy scent that hung in the air. Spread out on the big bed was a large and fluffy towel. You had seen a few romance movies in your life and the only thing that was missing from this picture, compared to the movies, were the flower petals.

“Wow,” you breathed, “You really prepared this.”

Whiskey stood behind you, with his hands resting comfortably on your hips.

“Of course. I wanna spoil you any way I can, sugar,” he told you and you could hear the warmth in his voice.

“Clearly...” you said, looking around the room again. This time your eyes landed on a small square painting that you hadn't seen the last time you had been here. It was an oil portrait of a woman, sitting half-turned away from the artist that had painted her. She was hunched over a big book, her posture not the greatest from an ergonomic point of view but somehow made to look graceful in the painting. You could almost see the woman's profile and it was clear that she was frowning in concentration at whatever she was reading. Perched on the bridge of her nose was a pair of round glasses.

“That...” you started but trailed off, unsure exactly what to say.

“From the auction,” Whiskey explained and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. You tilted your head to the side without making a conscious decision to do so. “I told you it reminded me of someone special.”

“I don't think I've ever read a book in the nude, like that,” you said and Whiskey smiled against your neck.

“Maybe you should,” he suggested with another kiss, and you rolled your eyes at him.

“So... about that massage,” you said, changing the topic.

“The bed's ready whenever you are, gorgeous.”

You stepped into the room and walked over to the bed, smoothing your hand over the soft towel. Whiskey was still standing in the doorway, leaning against it. Suddenly you felt a bit shy about undressing in front of him like this, like it was a show and he was the audience. However appreciative you were sure he was gonna be, it felt too much like you were expected to put on a performance, and being in the spotlight had never been your thing.

Whiskey must have picked up on the discomfort because before you could ask him to maybe turn around, he pushed away from the spot he was leaning against and told you he needed to fetch something from the bathroom. You relaxed a bit once he disappeared, and slowly began to unbutton your shirt.

You pulled it, and the tank top you had been wearing underneath, off, and hung them both up on the hook next to Whiskey's bathrobe. You hesitated with the clasp of your bra before deciding to leave it on. You did remove the glasses, however, and set them down on the nightstand. Then you crawled onto the bed and laid down on your stomach on the towel, with your chin resting on your crossed forearms as you waited for Whiskey to return.

“Now, ain't that a sight,” he complimented you when he returned a minute later, with a small bottle in his hands. He stopped in the doorway again but only for a couple of seconds before he joined you on the bed.

“I brought lavender oil,” he told you, showing you the glass bottle. “We don't have to use it if you don't want to but I find it does make the hands glide a bit smoother.” You didn't need to see the wink to know it had happened.

“Oil is fine,” you told him, with a small shrug. You obviously knew how massages worked, in theory, but Whiskey was the expert here so you would follow his lead.

“Trouble is, darlin'...” Whiskey continued, sounding a bit hesitant. “That unless we want to stain that bra of yours...”

“ _Oh_!” you said, feeling a bit stupid, “Of course! I only left it on because I wasn't sure how undressed you wanted me and I didn't want to overdo it.”

That made Whiskey chuckle.

“Honey, when it comes to you undressing for me, there's no such thing as overdoing it. Trust me. May I...?”

You nodded and Whiskey reached over to unhook the clasp of your bra and gently push the straps off your shoulders. You suspected that you looked less graceful than your oil painting counterpart when you wiggled free of the bra and pulled it out from underneath you. As you looked for somewhere to put it, Whiskey plucked it from your fingers and set it down on the bed next to himself.

“Thanks.”

You heard him unscrew the cap of the bottle and heard him rub his hands together. The lavender mixed nicely with the scent from the candles and you shifted a little to make yourself more comfortable. Turning your head to the side to rest your face against the pillow, you could see Whiskey's jeans-clad knee and thigh next to you. It was a very nice thigh, you decided, after some inspection.

The first touch to your back made you start just a little because it was so soft it almost tickled and you weren't ready for it.

“Easy,” Whiskey said softly. You refrained from pointing out that you weren't a skittish horse because just as you considered opening your mouth, Whiskey pressed his palms against your back and the touch distracted you.

He started lightly at first, smoothing his hands along your sides to spread the oil out across your skin. Then he moved his hands higher and higher on your back until he reached your shoulders. There, he stopped for a moment before giving them a light squeeze.

“Christ Almighty!” he half-whispered, sounding incredulous.

“What?” you asked and turned your head to look at him better.

“Darlin, how are your shoulders this tense?” He still sounded shocked. “It's like they haven't relaxed in years!”

“It's not that bad,” you protested, feeling a little defensive on behalf of your shoulders. They generally served you well, even if they didn't seem to live up to Whiskey's standards of softness.

“I beg to differ... how can you even move around, Pinocchio?” There was a note of affection to his voice but you still reached out to awkwardly slap his leg.

“Shut up. I told you I've never gotten a massage before.”

“Then this one is not a day too early!”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow.

“Just give me my massage, please,” you mumbled, muffled by the fabric. “Sans commentary!”

Whiskey laughed and leaned down to kiss your cheek.

“I'll be quiet as a church mouse, but those shoulders need fixin' before we're done here for tonight.”

“Sans...Commentary,” you repeat into the pillow.

“Alright, alright! Sorry!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

True to his word, Whiskey actually refrained from making any further comments about the state of your shoulder. He was quiet as he kneaded, poked, and prodded your trapezius muscles. The flirtatious air from earlier had pretty much died completely because there was nothing sensual about the way Whiskey was touching you now. Painful, yes. Sensual, no. Whiskey seemed like he was actually trying to do something about the state of your shoulders. And while you did appreciate the gesture, you hadn't expected that it would involve so much pain.

When he pressed down on a spot just above your shoulder blade and you couldn't hold back the pained sound that slipped from your lips into the pillow. Was it socially acceptable to cry during a massage?

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart,” Whiskey apologized, and to his credit, he actually sounded like he meant it. “I just gotta work these knots out. It'll get better, I promise.”

And it sort of did. Or maybe you just habituated to the pain. Because the longer Whiskey kept going the more the pain dulled and you thought you could actually feel the tension leaving your shoulders.

When Whiskey eventually declared the job done, you were nothing but a boneless heap on the bed – possibly because he'd crushed every bone in your upper body, which would have explained the pain earlier. Your body felt loose in a way that you weren't sure it ever had and your shoulders throbbed. It was like you had a heart sitting in each shoulder, slowly pulsating. You knew that was a medical impossibility, but that didn't change the fact that this was exactly what it felt like.

As the ache in your shoulders receded, it was replaced by tiredness that had no connection to the hour of the clock. You tried to say something to Whiskey but you were so tired that it came out slurred and impossible to understand. Whiskey kindly offered for you to maybe spend the night instead of going back to your room in this state. You nodded to accept the offer.

Whiskey left the room to clear up the last things from dinner and turn off the lights. While he was gone, you shimmied out of your jeans, folded them neatly, and put them on Whiskey's side of the bed. Then you crawled under the covers.

The bed was even more comfortable when curled up under the covers. You were by no means an expert on linen but considering how soft these felt against your bare skin you were willing to bet they cost a fortune. You thought of your cotton ones back at the HQ, the cheapest ones you had been able to find. They had never felt this good. You hummed happily just as Whiskey came back.

He picked up your pants and bra and hung them next to your shirt, before shrugging out of his own jeans and plaid shirt, leaving him only in a t-shirt and his underwear. You had just enough time to see the darker lines on his leg and arm – scars from the wounds you had stitched shut – before he turned off the lights in the room and blew out the candle on his nightstand.

When he got into bed, he kept a respectful distance to you under the covers. It was not only unnecessary on your behalf but also quite the opposite of what you wanted. So, carefully, you shifted closer.

You couldn't properly see his face in the dark, but the “Oh hey there, honey,” sounded inviting and a little amused so when he lifted his arm, you snuggled up against his side. He turned his head to place a kiss on your forehead.

“Thank you for tonight, Whiskey.”

“Anytime, darlin’... I didn't hurt you too badly, did I-”

You shook your head against his shoulder.

“Not too bad,” you said, with a yawn. “But just a heads up. Next time you come to me, injured, there is a chance that I might be out of painkillers.”

Whiskey chuckled.

“Don't you mean _risk_?”

You yawned again and felt your eyes drift shut.

“For you maybe,” you mumbled before sleep overtook you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you woke up to loud snores in your ear. You grimaced as the noise pulled you from your pleasant slumber, and turned your head towards the source of the disturbance.

Whiskey had his head resting halfway onto your pillow and his mouth was hanging open slightly, distributing the sounds of his snores even more efficiently. His hair was completely flat on one side of his face and sticking out on the opposite side, as if he'd spent the night in a windy tunnel. In his current state, Whiskey looked nothing like the suave and smooth-talking agent that he usually was but there was something about the vision he currently made that had your heart doing that funny thing in your chest again. He was sort of beautiful, in all his ridiculous glory.

He was also still very much out for the count and after a few minutes of watching and listening to him, you grew restless. If you had been home, you would have already been up and about by now. And as much as you liked Whiskey, you very much preferred him when he was awake.

So after having spent another few minutes wondering if it would be considered rude to leave him here, and deciding that you would apologize later if it was, you wiggled free from Whiskey's embrace, put your glasses back on, and padded out into the living room, where the bookcase immediately caught your attention. Reading in bed could possibly be a compromise that everyone would be happy with.

You went over to the collection of books and ran your gaze over the titles. Eventually, you settled on the book on medical practices when there was no access to a hospital. Personally, you rarely left the hospital, but learning more couldn't hurt.

Equipped with something to entertain you, you made your way back to bed. As you slid back under the covers, Whiskey immediately snaked an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. After a bit of maneuvering around – which seemed to bring Whiskey no closer to consciousness, at all – you found a position that allowed you to both serve as something for Whiskey to cling to and let you comfortably read your book.

You flipped past the introductory chapter. They were always mostly about the author and why they had decided to write the book anyway. That kind of information held little interest for you so you skipped straight to the chapter on accidental stab wounds, which was much more up your alley. You were pleased to discover that they had provided helpful illustrations and sometimes even pictures for the various injuries.

You were about two thirds through the second chapter when Whiskey suddenly spoke from beside you. You had been so engrossed in reading that you hadn't even noticed that the snoring had stopped.

“I thought you said you didn't read in the nude,” he commented and you glanced down to find him watching you.

“I am still in my underwear so technically not naked,” you retorted, glancing down at him.

“And what a cryin' shame that is,” Whiskey murmured and you felt him smirk as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. You snorted before returning your attention to the book and the page about how to salvage a mostly sliced off finger. Whiskey shifted, resting his head on your shoulder so he could read what you were reading. Under the covers, his hand was lazily stroking along your side in a way that almost tickled.

“I've done that,” he said, nodding towards the page.

“Yeah? How did it go?” you asked and he pulled his hand out from under the covers to show you a scar that ran almost all the way around his left pinky. You missed the warmth of his hand on your skin but was quickly distracted by getting to study his finger.

“You cut through the bone as well,” you commented, turning his hand around.

“Well, _I_ didn't cut through anything but yes. How can you tell?” Whiskey asked. You stroked a finger along the thin scar.

“It healed a little crooked,” you told him.

“Huh... can't say that I've noticed,” Whiskey replied but he didn't pull his hand away from you.

“You would if you had studied it closely,” you assured him. You heard Whiskey chuckle.

“Darlin', I don't think anyone has studied any part of me as closely as you're currently studying that finger.”

That made you pause and you let go of his hand.

“I am being weird,” you stated as Whiskey wrapped his freed arm around you again.

“No weirder than usual,” he said with a small shrug and you weren't sure if he actually intended for the comment to be comforting. It made you frown regardless.

The frown eased a little when Whiskey went back to cuddling you, sighing happily in a way that made you think that if you were weird, then maybe Whiskey didn't mind.

“I must confess, sugar,” he said after a couple of minutes, “I have not slept this great without medical aid in a long time.”

“I didn't drug you, if that's what you're asking,” you replied, attempting a joke. It made him smile.

“You didn't have to, angel. Just bein' around you is intoxicating enough,” Whiskey said in a low voice and, as if to prove his point, he turned to bury his face in the crook of your neck. You felt him take a deep breath, closely followed by another content sigh. You smiled and continued reading, just as Whiskey's lips brushed gently across the soft skin just below your ear.

The next kiss landed just below your jawline, and you had to force yourself to keep concentrating on the words in the book. The third and fourth ones were both on your cheek and you had time to reread the same sentence three times before the fifth kiss brushed against the corner of your mouth and you admitted defeat.

You turned your head and pressed your lips against Whiskey's before he could even attempt to give you a sixth one. Certain things were more important than severed limbs on weekend mornings in bed.

In one swift movement, Whiskey plucked the book from your hand and tossed it onto the nightstand before shifting so he was half on top of you, holding himself up on one elbow as his left arm slipped back under the covers to cradle your waist. You reached up to cup his cheeks and pull his face closer for another kiss. He went willingly, and his lips immediately parted under yours as you initiated deepening the kiss.

You made out for a bit, Whiskey's grip on you tightening as if he was afraid you might slip away from him if he didn't hold on. Then he seemed to force himself to ease his hold and he pulled back to look at you with his rich brown eyes, made even darker with lust.

“May I...?” he asked a little breathless, inching his hand just a little higher from where it was splayed across your ribs. You nodded. Whatever he wanted to do with his hands, you wanted it too. You wanted as much from Whiskey as he was willing to give you.

Having received permission, Whiskey slid his hand up to cup the soft swell of your breast with a low moan. This was new, and your body seemed to arch into his touch out of its own accord, just as Whiskey squeezed gently. You made some sort of noise against his mouth, unclear exactly what but there was no doubt about the intent. You wanted more. More of the feeling of his palm brushing over the sensitive skin of your nipple, and more of whatever other way he could think of to touch you.

You pulled him closer against you and as you did, you felt the hard line of his cock press up against your thigh. It made you freeze, just for a moment, but Whiskey noticed.

“Just a physical reaction, sweetheart,” he said against your lips “We don't have to do anything about it. Nothin' more than you're comfortable with. Cross my heart...”

“I want to,” you blurted out. “I want to have sex with you.”

Whiskey blinked in surprise a couple of times before speaking.

“...You sure?” He asked calmly, but there was a slight tremble to his voice that betrayed his own emotions.

“Whiskey...” you said, a little impatiently and he held his hand up.

“Just checkin'.”

“I'm ready,” you assured him and when you tugged him back in, his mouth felt just as eager as yours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It turned out that _ready_ might have been an overestimation on your part. Not in the sense that you at any point questioned your decision to go along with this but you had to confess that you hadn't been wholly prepared for all the feelings that would come along with letting Whiskey do more than kiss you.

While his mouth rarely strayed far from your lips, his hands compensated for it by mapping every inch of your body that he could reach – his fingers leaving your skin tingling in their wake. And you seized the opportunity to get your hands on him as well by, first of all, helping him out of his t-shirt and, second of all, pressing as close to that newly exposed skin as you could.

You almost shot off the bed when Whiskey's hand finally slid between your legs and his thumb brushed over your clit. Obviously, you had touched yourself prior to this and it had felt great, but it had never felt quite like this. It was as if all your sensory nerves were running on overdrive, firing impulses as if it was their last day on Earth.

And if Whiskey kept touching you this way then it very well might be. After the initial featherlight touches, that made your body twitch with each brush of his fingers, Whiskey had carefully pushed one of said fingers inside you. The sensation made your mouth fall open in a gasp that he bent down to kiss from your lips.

A second finger soon joined the first. You felt the slight stretch as he fingered you, and angled your hips up, urging him on. And Whiskey was happy to oblige. It felt familiar and completely new at the same time, having someone else touch you this way, and you quickly decided that this was way better! And almost too good.

At one point, you had to grab Whiskey's wrist to make him slow down, just when it felt like you would come apart at the seams.

Your thighs kept shaking as his skilled fingers brought you closer and closer to an orgasm. And you would have felt a bit self-conscious about the noises you were making if it weren't for the absolutely delighted smile on Whiskey's face as he watched you in between kisses.

When you finally let yourself let go, you clasped a hand over your mouth to hold back the cry that threatened to escape. Whiskey let the peak of your orgasm pass before he removed the hand from your mouth to kiss your lips. You felt dizzy. Whiskey mumbled praise against your lips, as he slid his sticky fingers between yours and held your clasped hands flat against the mattress. You allowed yourself to bask in the tingly sensation in your body for just a little while as Whiskey continued kissing you.

Your body felt pleasantly relaxed but not worn out and, despite the orgasm, there was still this greedy little voice in the back of your mind that wanted more. So before Whiskey got any stupid ideas about leaving bed, you rolled over onto your side and pushed at his shoulder, guiding him onto his back. Whiskey looked pleasantly surprised by this turn of events.

“My turn?” you whispered, kissing his neck. Whiskey just nodded and you felt him swallow as you slid your hand down his bare chest, stopping at the waistband of his underwear. You bit your lip and pulled back to look at his face.

“You sure about this?” you asked, with mock concern. As much as you had actually appreciated his need to make sure, you couldn't resist teasing him a little bit about it now. It took him a second before he caught on.

“My good manners are sorely wasted on you, Moonsh-” Whiskey cut himself off with a gasp as you slid your hand down to palm him through his underwear.

He felt big and heavy against your palm, not that you had much to compare him to. You had seen naked bodies before, but that had been for work and studies. Not very sexy and not something you should be thinking about now!

Returning your full focus to the man next to you, you stroked him through the fabric of his underwear a few more times before pushing the dark cotton out of the way for better access.

As your fingers curled around his bare cock, Whiskey let out a moan that was downright obscene. He felt smoother than you had expected. You moved your hand experimentally but it felt unfamiliar and you were suddenly unsure if you were doing it right.

“Show me,” you asked and Whiskey turned his head to kiss you. As he did, you felt his hand cover yours, tightening the grip you had just a little. Then he slowly moved your hand up and down the length of his erection. You had to stop kissing him, just to watch. Even his cock was beautiful, you thought to yourself as you watched the head of it disappear and reappear behind your joined fists.

When you glanced up at his face, Whiskey had his eyes shut and his shallow breaths mingled with the softest of whimpers. You wanted to kiss them from his lips, and so you did. His mouth opened under your lips and he let out a low moan as his tongue tangled with yours.

You let Whiskey set the pace for jerking him off but as you got more familiar with the feel of him in your hand, you added a few extra squeezes here and there, mostly for the satisfaction of hearing Whiskey's breath stutter in his throat and the way his hips bucked into your touch as you did it.

He sped up your strokes and once he did, it didn't take long before he came undone – pushed over the edge with the aid of your touch, just as you had done with the aid of his. You felt him pulsate in your hand as thin ropes of come landed on his stomach.

He let out a low groan before his fingers loosened around yours. You waited for him to say something but, for once, Whiskey chose to be quiet.

“Well?” you asked and Whiskey cracked an eye open to look at you with a lazy smile.

“Give a man a moment to recover here, sugar. It's not every day I get to start the morning with a beautiful woman's hand around my cock.”

You had no idea what to reply to that statement but Whiskey just smiled and pulled you close to his side again.

“Besides,” he continued “I should be the one to ask you first... Was it alright?” His flirty smile didn't waver but there was something in the way he was looking at you that made you wonder if he was nervous. Probably not but you still opted for giving him a sincere reply, just in case.

“I really liked it,” you said, unable to stop the grin from spreading on your face. Whiskey's matching one was blinding before he leaned in to kiss you.

“So did I, sweetheart.... so did I.”


End file.
